Univ.of  111.  Library 

51  ' 

Z69Z 


THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  ILLINOIS 
LIBRARY 

I 

From  the  collection  of 
Julius  Doerner,  Chicago 
Purchased,  1918, 


A TAG-RANT  "WTETl 


AUTHOR  OF 


BY 


FLORENCE  WARDEN 


DEEDES,”  “ SCHEHERAZADE,”  **  A WITCH  OF  THE  HILLS, w WO, 


NEW  YORK 

INTERNATIONAL  BOOK  COMPIN’* 

3IO-318  SIXTH  AVENUF 


A Vagrant  Wife. 


The  country  town  of  Beckham  was  astir.  It  was  a 
cloudy,  changeful  May  afternoon,  and  the  white-capped 
country  lasses  who  were  alighting  from  all  sorts  of  strange 
vehicles  at  the  churchyard  gate  had  to  hold  up  their  clean 
cotton  frocks  with  what  untutored  grace  they  might,  as 
they  trod  the  worn,  wet  flagstones  that  led  up  to  the 
church  door.  Three  or  four  hundred  lads  and  lasses  of 
Beckham  and  the  neighborhood  were  collecting  at  the 
sound  of  the  church-bells  for  the  bishop  to  lay  his  hands 
on  their  empty  heads  and  confirm  them  in  the  faith  in 
which  they  were  baptized. 

The  big  bare  building  filled  quickly,  the  vicar  on  Sunday 
never  gathered  such  a congregation.  The  candidates  filled 
the  two  middle  aisles,  the  girls  occupying  the  whole  of  one 
and  the  front  benches  of  the  other,  the  boys  the  rest.  The 
latter  looked  shame-faced,  the  former  self-conscious  but 
content. 

Long  before  the  bishop’s  appearance  the  church  was  full 
in  every  part,  for  it  was  a pretty  sight  even  to  those  who 
had  no  personal  interest  in  any  of  the  candidates. 

When  from  time  to  time  the  sun  burst  through  the 
swift-flying  clouds  and  shone  through  the  long  windows 
full  upon  the  young  faces  crowned  with  the  demure  little 
white  caps,  women  whispered  to  each  other  softly  that  it 
looked  like  heaven.  There  were  thoughts  not  unworthy 
of  this  simile  in  some  of  the  young  minds,  especially  in 
1 those  of  the  girls ; others,  while  trying  to  fix  their  thoughts 

—as  they  had  been  told  to  do — upon  the  Catechism,  could 
I not  help  wishing  they  could  renounce  the  pomps  and  van- 
> ities  in  white  cashmere  with  pretty  frills  of  lace  at  throat 
and  wrists,  like  Miss  Main  waring  of  Garstone  Vicarage, 
who  looked  so  like  a picture  of  some  fair -haired  saint,  as 
phe  sat  with  her  starry  blue  eyes  fixed  steadily  on  the 


BY  FLORENCE  f ARDEN. 


CHAPTER  I. 


4 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


communion  table  in  front  of  her,  that  it  was  impossible  to 
guess  that  she  was  thinking  more  of  her  new  ivory-bound 
church-service  than  of  the  ceremony  she  was  about  to  go 
through.  She  and  the  girl  by  her  side  attracted  more  at- 
tention than  any  others.  There  were  a few  of  their  class 
present,  but  of  types  as  commonplace  and  faces  as  vacu- 
ous as  those  of  the  village- girls. 

Betty  Mainwaring  was  sixteen.  Her  fresh  young  face 
was  sweet  and  silly,  charming  by  the  look  of  modest  purity 
which  passed  so  easily  under  the  tulle  cap  and  veil  for  the 
expression  of  pious  devotion;  but  in  truth  Betty’s  very  in- 
nocence, and  the  fact  that  she  had  passed  her  whole  life  in 
an  atmosphere  of  the  simplest,  strictest  religion,  had  made 
it  impossible  for  her  to  concentrate  much  earnest  thought 
upon  this  important  step  in  the  Christian  life.  She  had 
read  through  the  devotional  works  prescribed  for  her  as 
attentively  as  she  could,  and  had  accepted  all  the  formulas 
and  dogmas  of  the  Church  with  the  unshrinking  faith  of 
the  most  complete  ignorance  of  their  meaning.  She  had 
been  taught  that  confirmation  is  one  of  the  most  serious 
events  of  life,  and  she  believed  it  and  let  the  fact  rest, 
while  her  innocent  thoughts  wandered  to  a consideration 
of  the  backs  of  the  row  of  girls  in  front  of  her,  and  to  the 
reflection  how  strange  it  seemed  to  be  confirmed  with  one’s 
own  governess. 

For  the  girl  beside  her,  with  the  passionate  dark  eyes 
and  set,  serious  face,  only  eighteen  herself,  and  already 
carrying  on  her  young  shoulders  the  responsibility  of  di- 
recting the  minds  of  girls  of  her  own  age,  was  Miss  Lane, 
who  taught  “advanced”  English,  French,  German, 
Italian,  music,  and  singing  to  the  two  grown-up  Misses 
Mainwaring,  and  the  earlier  stages  of  the  same  to  their 
two  younger  sisters  and  their  seven-year-old  brother.  To 
her  life  was  a serious  hard-working  affair  enough,  and  her 
tardy  confirmation  an  event  of  quite  desperate  impor- 
tance, involving  much  doubt  and  anxious  self-examining. 
She  had  even  thought  of  asking  the  vicar,  her  pupils’ 
father,  for  a private  interview,  of  laying  bare  the  bewil- 
dered state  of  her  mind,  and  of  asking  him  whether  he 
thought  her  fit  for  confirmation.  The  papers  on  the  sub- 
ject which  he  had  given  her  to  read  had  proved  but  dry 
bones  to  the  eager,  earnest  girl ; but  she  had  a strong  con- 
viction that  confession  would  procure  little  more.  The 
Reverend  John  Mainwaring’s  religion  was  not  of  the  hys- 
terical, but  of  the  independent  sort;  and  the  girl  felt  that 
all  he  could  do  would  be  to  throw  her  back  on  prayer  and 
her  own  conscience  for  an  answer  to  her  doubts.  What 
was  certain  was  that  he  would  unhesitatingly  have  pro- 
nounced the  conscientious  little  worker,  striving  hard  to 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


5 


live  up  to  an  ideal  standard  of  excellence  in  her  dull  pro- 
fession, as  fitter  for  confirmation  than  almost  any  mem- 
ber of  his  flock. 

So  she  sat  by  her  pupil’s  side,  with  downcast  eyes  and 
mind  fixed  on  the  service  she  was  about  to  hear,  curiously 
conscious  at  the-same  time — being  keenly  alive  to  outward 
things  and  not  without  a young  girl’s  vanity— of  the  inter- 
est her  pretty,  modest  appearance  was  exciting. 

But,  just  before  the  entrance  of  the  bishop,  three  per- 
sons came  in  to  whom  all  eyes  turned  at  once,  and  there 
was  almost  a murmur  of  admiration  even  in  the  hush  of 
the  sacred  building  at  sight  of  the  girl  who,  at  the  foot  of 
the  middle  aisle,  stopped  for  her  mother  and  brother  to 
take  off  the  long  white  mantle  which  was  wrapped  round 
her,  and  then  followed  the  Reverend  John  Mainwaring  up 
the  aisle  to  the  seat  he  had  kept  for  her  in  the  pew  with 
his  own  daughter  and  the  governess,  Annie  Lane. 

Lilian  Braithwaite  came  of  a handsome  race.  Tall,  with 
a well  molded  figure,  gray  eyes,  brown  hair,  and  com- 
plexion rich  enough  in  its  tints  to  promise  something  more 
lovely  still  when  a season  or  two  in  town  should  have 
toned  down  its  coloring,  she  gave  promise  of  beauty  dis- 
tinguished enough  to  hold  its  own  amongst  the  fairest 
women  she  might  meet.  The  plain  white  cashmere  which 
looked  so  simple  on  Betty  Mainwaring  had  quite  a differ- 
ent effect  upon  her  handsome  figure,  and  the  tulle  head- 
dress, half  cap,  half  veil,  which  she  wore  in  common  with 
the  other  candidates  of  her  own  class,  had  as  much  of  the 
veil  and  as  little  of  the  cap  about  it  as  possible.  Already, 
at  seventeen,  she  walked  through  the  crowd  of  admiring 
faces  with  a bearing  which  showed  more  of  the  dignity  of 
an  acknowledged  beauty  than  of  the  modesty  of  a young 
girl.  She  smiled  at  the  young  governess  good-humoredly 
enough,  however,  and  would  even  have  entered  into  a 
whispered  conversation,  with  scornfully  critical  remarks 
upon  the  rest  of.  the  candidates,  if  Miss  Lane  had  not  re- 
ceived her  overtures  shyly  and  with  all  the  primness  of 
her  profession.  Miss  Braithwaite,  who  was  not  easily  re- 
pulsed, gave  a little  amused  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  and 
said,  in  a loud  whisper: 

“Are  you  afraid  the  vicar  is  looking  at  you?” 

And  then  she  met  his  rather  uneasy  glance  in  her  own 
direction  with  a bland  smile. 

It  had  been  rather  a difficult  matter  for  him  to  bring 
himself  to  believe  that  Miss  Braithwaite  was  in  all  respects 
fit  for  confirmation ; but,  as  no  scruple  had  ever  entered 
her  own  head,  and  as,  moreover,  she  was  technically  pre- 
pared for  the  rite,  being  able  to  repeat  the  Lord’s  Prayer, 
the  Ten  Commandments,  and  the  Catechism  with  perfect 


6 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


fluency,  he  had  no  choice  but  to  bring  her  to  the  bishop 
with  the  rest  of  the  candidates. 

When  the  service  was  over,  and  she  rejoined  her  mother 
and  brother,  a young  man  with  a rather  handsome  face, 
but  deformed  and  resting  on  crutches,  came  up  to  her  and 
stood  silently  by  while  her  brother  wrapped  her  again  in 
the  long,  white  mantle  she  had  come  in. 

“ You  here,  Stephen!  How  did  you  come?  The  doctor 
said  you  were  not  to  go  out  until  your  cough  was  better,” 
said  Miss  Braithwaite,  in  a voice  scarcely  as  low  as  it 
ought  to  have  been. 

“ I wanted  to  see  you— all  in  white  like  a bride,  making 
all  the  other  girls  look  ugly  and  clumsy,”  whispered  the 
cripple,  with  his  face  flushing;  “so  I got  Thompson  to 
get  the  pony-carriage  ready,  arid  followed  you  as  fast  as  I 
could.” 

Stephen  Lawler’s  contempt  for  the  appearance  of  the 
rest  of  the  candidates  was  not  shared  by  his  cousin,  Harry 
Braithwaite,  who  turned  to  watch  one  of  the  girls  admir- 
ingly, and  whispered : 

“ I say,  Lilian,  how  awfully  fetching  little  1 Miss  Prim  ’ 
looks  in  that  get-up!”  “Little  Miss  Prim”  was  Annie 
Lane,  the  governess. 

“Yes,  she  is  a pretty  girl,”  answered  his  sister,  who 
was  handsome  enough  to  be  able  to  afford  to  acknowledge 
beauty  in  others. 

Meanwhile  the  crowd  was  surging  toward  the  door,  and 
Harry  Braithwaite  kept  his  mother  and  sister  as  near  the 
Vicarage  party  as  he  could.  At  the  church  door  they  dis- 
covered that  a heavy  shower  of  rain  was  coming  down, 
and  Mrs.  Mainwaring  was  lamenting  piteously  that  her 
husband,  who  had  come  on  the  box  of  the  brougham  be- 
side the  coachman,  would  lose  his  voice  entirely  if  he 
were  to  return  in  the  same  way  through  the  rain.  Harry 
Braithwaite  whispered  a few  words  into  his  mother’s  ear, 
and,  raising  his  hat,  stepped  forward  and  placed  a seat  in 
their  own  carriage  at  the  disposal  of  the  vicar’s  wife,  in 
his  mother’s  name. 

“ If  Miss  Lane  will  come  with  us,  there  will  be  lots  of 
room  in  the  brougham  for  you  and  your  two  daughters 
and  the  vicar  too,”  said  he. 

And  before  Mrs.  Mainwaring  could  say  more  than 
“Oh,  thank  you,  but,”  he  had  severed  Miss  Lane  from 
her  pupils  and  was  escorting  her  under  an  umbrella  to 
the  big  Braithwaite  barouche. 

Mrs.  Mainwaring  looked  uneasy;  her  two  daughters, 
Joan  and  Betty,  looked  displeased. 

“I  am  sure  papa  will  not  approve  of  that  arrangement. 


A VAGRANT  WIFE.  7 

ftiatnma,”  said  Joan,  the  eldest  of  the  family,  who  had 
come  to  see  her  sister  confirmed. 

“Well,  what  could  I do,  Joan?  He  meant  to  be  good- 
natured  ; and  it  would  not  do  for  the  wife  of  the  vicar  of 
the  parish  to  show  any  prejudice.  Of  course  I should  not 
have  allowed  you  or  Betty  to  go,  but  with  Miss  Lane  it  is 
different;  she  can  take  care  of  herself.” 

“ I should  think  so!”  said  Joan,  sharply. 

And  then  the  vicar  came  up,  and  his  wife  hurried  him 
into  the  brougham,  saying  there  was  plenty  of  room ; and 
it  was  not  until  they  were  on  the  point  of  stating  that  she 
confessed,  in  answer  to  his  inquiries,  that  Miss  Lane  was 
going  home  in  the  Braith  waites’  carriage. 

“That  was  Master  Harry’s  doing,  I suppose?”  said  the 
vicar,  with  a very  grave  face. 

“ It  was  all  done  so  quickly,  it  was  impossible  for  me  to 
stop  him,”  said  his  wife,  deprecatingly.  “You  know  you 
would  not  have  minded  if  it  had  been  anybody  else’s  car- 
riage ; and,  if  they  are  rather  a wild  set,  we  cannot  reform 
them  by  holding  aloof  from  them.  And  it  is  not  as  if  I 
had  let  one  of  the  girls  go,”  said  she,  hurriedly,  lowering 
her  voice. 

“But  you  have  let  4 one  of  the  girls  ’ go.  Miss  Lane  is 
only  a few  months  older  than  Joan,”  he  answered,  more 
gravely  than  ever. 

And  she,  being  a wise  woman,  dropped  the  conversation, 
to  take  it  up  again  when  they  two  should  be  alone  together. 

This  little  incident  and  the  discussion  it  had  caused  dis- 
turbed the  peace  of  all  the  occupants  of  the  carriage.  The 
vicar  was  annoyed  that  a member  of  his  household  should 
be  thrown  into  such  very  uncongenial  and  perhaps  danger- 
ous society  on  the  very  day  of  her  confirmation.  His  wife 
was  uneasy  on  account  of  his  annoyance.  Joan  and  Betty 
were  somewhat  agitated,  too;  but  they  gave  no  vent  to 
their  feelings  except  in  a little  soft-toned  wrangle  about 
the  amount  of  space  each  was  authorized  to  take  on  the 
rather  small  front  seat  of  the  brougham.  When  the 
Braithwaite  carriage  passed  them  they  became  suddenly 
:silent,  both  gazing  eagerly  out  until  it  had  passed  out  of 
«ight.  They  had  time  to  see  the  portly  Lady  Braithwaite 
and  her  handsome  daughter  leaning  back  comfortably  on 
one  seat,  while  Miss  Lane  and  Harry  Braithwaite  sat  op- 
posite; he  was  talking  to  her,  and  did  not  notice  the 
brougham. 

When  the  Vicarage  was  reached,  a group  of  children 
rushed  to  the  hall  door  to  criticise  their  elder  sister  in  her 
white  gown,  and  the  missing  governess. 

‘‘Hasn’t  Miss  Lane  come  back  yet?”  asked  Mrs.  Main- 
waring,  rather  anxiously.  “Their  carriage  passed  us  a 


8 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


long  time  ago,”  she  added,  when  the  children  had  shaken 
their  heads  in  surprise. 

“ She  will  stay  at  the  Grange  to  tea,  of  course,  mamma,” 
said  Joan,  acidly. 

And  again  Mrs.  Mainwaring,  with  a glance  at  her  hus- 
band, dropped  the  subject. 

The  Grange  was  a sort  of  an  ogre’s  castle  to  the  simple 
lady,  and  not  quite  without  reason.  There  is  in  most 
quiet  country  neighborhoods  a house  with  this  sort  of 
reputation,  where  there  lives  a wicked  man  who  does  not 
come  regularly  to  church,  and  who  goes  to  bed  and  gets 
up  again  at  unorthodox  hours,  and  whose  guests  do  the 
same  and  worse  things  besides ; where  there  is  a tribe  of 
servants  who  find  it  difficult  to  obtain  places  in  the  neigh- 
borhood on  leaving;  and  where,  above  all,  there  is  a fam- 
ily of  healthy,  high-spirited,  ill-disciplined  children,  rough 
girls  and  rougher  boys,  who  grow  up  with  a bad  name, 
which  becomes  steadily  worse  as  the  wild  lads  grow  into 
manhood,  and  the  girls,  without  any  one’s  saying  that 
there  is  any  “ harm  in  them,”  acquire  the  stigma  of  being 
“fast.”  The  Grange  was  more  worthy  of  its  bad  reputa- 
tion than  most  homes  of  the  same  type.  Sir  George 
Braithwaite,  the  present  owner,  had  in  his  youth  on  sev- 
eral occasions  narrowly  escaped  appearing  in  the  London 
police  courts;  he  had  sobered  down  somewhat  on  coming 
into  the  baronetcy ; but  in  four  wild  sons,  whose  doings 
were  the  scandal  of  the  neighborhood,  he  saw  the  follies 
of  his  own  youth  repeated  and  developed. 

When,  two  years  before,  theBeverend  John  Mainwaring 
became  Vicar  of  Garstone,  the  inmates  of  the  Grange  had 
made  advances  to  the  new-comers,  had  petted  the  pretty 
Betty  and  invited  the  elder  boys  to  fish  and  shoot  during 
the  holidays.  But  the  vicar  and  his  wife  soon  took  alarm, 
and,  while  striving  to  maintain  an  appearance  of  perfect 
good-will,  discouraged  the  intimacy  between  the  younger 
members  of  the  families,  until  the  proud  Braith  waites, 
seeing  at  last  through  the  civil  excuses  and  regrets,  drew 
back  suddenly  and  held  themselves  as  far  aloof  as  Mrs. 
Mainwaring  could  wish.  The  intimacy  thus  abruptly 
checked  had  never  been  renewed,  and,  although  the 
members  of  the  two  families  greeted  each  other  without 
apparent  ill-will  when  by  chance  they  met,  there  was  no 
cordiality  on  either  side — the  Grange  laughed  at  the 
Vicarage  as  “ slow,”  the  Vicarage  shuddered  at  the  Grange 
as  “ fast.” 

The  interest  the  latter  took  in  the  prim  little  Vicarage 
girls  and  their  brothers  had  died  out  long  since,  while,  on 
the  other  hand,  the  “wild  Braithwaites  ” had  an  ever- 
increased  secret  attraction  for  the  clergyman’s  family. 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


9 


Joan  and  Betty  were  more  constrained  than  usual  when 
accident  brought  them  face  to  face  with  any  of  the  hand- 
some Braithwaite  boys,  and  they  both  in  their  hearts  sat 
in  judgment  upon  their  parents,  and  thought  that  a policy 
of  conciliation  would  be  a much  more  Christian  way  of 
treating  the  scapegraces.  And  each  of  these  demure  and 
somewhat  stiff  maidens  began,  as  she  left  the  school-room, 
to  think  she  saw  signs  of  redeeming  grace  in  one  of  the 
Grange  lads,  and  to  feel  that  she  would  like  to  have  a 
hand  in  his  reform. 

So  that,  when  Miss  Lane — who,  however  prim  and  staid 
her  manner  might  be,  was  undeniably  a very  pretty  girl 
— was  carried  off  before  their  eyes  by  one  of  their  wicked 
neighbors,  and  taken  to  the  interesting  Grange,  feelings 
which  their  simple-minded  mother  never  dreamed  of  min- 
gled with  the  indignation  Joan  expressed.  Betty  was  si- 
lent, but  inclined  to  be  tearful. 

The  Mainwarings  were  a somewhat  stolid  race,  and  meals 
at  which  no  stranger  was  present  were  very  solemn  feasts 
indeed.  On  this  occasion  tea-time  was  passed  in  dead  si- 
lence— even  Marian  and  Bertram,  the  two  youngest, 
scarcely  dared  kick  each  other  under  the  table.  When 
they  all  rose,  a tear  was  rolling  down  Betty’s  fair  cheek. 
Her  mother  caressed  her  anxiously,  fearing  that  the  excite- 
ment of  the  solemn  vows  she  had  made  that  day  had 
proved  too  much  for  her.  Betty  gave  way. 

“Oh,  how  that  Miss  Lane  must  be  enjoying  herself  at 
the  Grange!”  she  cried  bitterly. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Meanwhile  the  Braithwaite  carriage  had  reached  the 
Grange,  and,  Miss  Lane’s  timid  remonstrances  having 
been  overcome,  it  had  been  arranged  that  she  was  to  stay 
to  dine  there,  and  a boy  was  sent  to  the  Vicarage  with  a 
message  to  that  effect.  Harry,  who  had  gone  to  Beckham 
on  horseback,  and  had  sent  his  horse  home  and  returned 
in  the  carriage  to  be  near  the  pretty  governess,  was  suffer- 
ing from  a certain  sense  of  disappointment.  Miss  Lane 
proved  even  prettier  on  closer  inspection  than  she  had 
given  promise  at  a distance  of  being.  As  he  sat  beside  her 
in  the  carriage,  he  thought  to  himself  that  there  was  a 
beauty  in  the  rich  yet  delicate  tints  of  a brunette  complex- 
ion which  no  lily  fairness  could  vie  with,  and  that  the 
sweep  of  long,  dark  eyelashes  over  a girl’s  cheeks  was  the 
loveliest  thing  in  the  world.  But  he  saw  too  much  of 
those  eyelashes  and  not  enough  of  the  eyes  they  shaded — 
only  a swift,  shy  look  as  she  answered  any  question  of  his, 
and  then  they  fell  again  or  turned  to  his  sister,  who  chat- 


10 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


tered  on  fast  about  the  ceremony  they  had  just  passed 
through,  and  the  people  who  had  been  in  the  church. 

Harry  himself  was  less  talkative  than  usual ; he  could 
not  think  of  anything  to  say  worthy  the  attention  of  this 
beautiful,  brave  girl  with  the  soft  voice  and  steady,  brown 
eyes.  He  became  impatient  at  last,  snubbed  his  sister  for 
being  a magpie,  and  told  her  gruffly  to  “shut  up,”  when 
she  made  an  angry  reply.  He  was  glad  when  they 
reached  the  Grange  and  the  ladies  went  up  stairs;  then  he 
strolled  into  the  stable-yard  and  met  his  eldest  brother 
George. 

“Who  was  that  in  the  carriage?” 

“ Only  little  Miss  Lane,  the  Mainwarings’  governess.” 
“Eh?  Oh,  that  was  why  you  came  home  with  the  fam- 
ily-party ! What  is  she  like?’  ’ 

“Like?  Oh,  like— a governess!  Stiff,  prim— won’t 
talk,  or  can’t  talk.  Awful  mistake  for  her  to  have  such  a 
pretty  face;  it’s  thrown  away  on  a girl  like  that.” 

“Perhaps  she’ll  talk  by  and  by.  I think  life  at  the 
Vicarage  doesn’t  encourage  liveliness  much.  Where  is  she 
now?” 

“ Up-stairs  with  mamma  and  Lil.  I say,  she’s  my  dis- 
covery; I brought  her  here,  and  I won’t  have  you  monopo- 
lizing her.  I’ve  seen  you  starifig  at  her  in  church,  and 
wrinkling  up  your  ugly  face  with  annoyance  because  she 

wouldn’t  look  at  you;  but ” 

“My  dear  boy,  you  shall  have  undisturbed  possession  of 
your  prize,  as  far  as  I am  concerned.  I don’t  look  for  my 
goddesses  in  the  Sunday-school.  I admire  your  wisdom, 
though,  all  the  same.  She  can  do  you  no  possible  harm, 
and  will  give  you  some  excellent  advice  as  a reward  for 
your  attentions.” 

“Hope  she’ll  give  you  a snub  as  a reward  for  yours!” 
said  Harry,  with  a heartiness  which  went  beyond  broth- 
erly pleasantry. 

Both  faces  were  darkening  into  frowns  when  the  dinner- 
bell  rang.  When  they  entered  the  dining-room,  as  they 
did  together  a few  minutes  later,  they  found  little  Miss 
Lane  completely  engrossed  by  their  youngest  brother,  a 
great  overgrown  lad  of  fifteen  or  sixteen,  whose  usual 
shyness  with  women  had  been  overcome  in  a quarter  of  an 
hour’s  tete-a-tete  with  the  governess  in  the  drawing-room. 
He  had  placed  her  in  the  seat  between  his  own  and  his 
father’s;  but,  before  he  had  had  time  to  sit  down,  George 
dropped  quietly  into  the  chair  he  was  holding. 

“ That’s  my  place,”  said  he  roughly. 

“Mine  for  to-night,  dear  William, ” answered  his  elder 
brother  coolly,  bending  his  handsome  face  close  to  that  of 
the  girl  by  his  side,  “This  is  a pleasure  I have  long 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 11 

wished  for,  Miss  Lane,”  he  said,  in  the  tender  tones  of  the 
experienced  flirt. 

She  looked  at  him  shyly,  laughed  and  blushed. 

4 4 It  is  very  unkind  of  you  to  laugh.  Don’t  you  believe 
me?” 

44  Not  quite,  I think.” 

4 4 Someoody  has  been  poisoning  your  mind  against  me 
already,  1 see,”  he  said,  with  mock  fierceness.  44  You 
would  not  pay  any  attention  to  what  the  juvenile  William 
might  say.  It  must  have  been  Harry.  It  was  Harry,  was 
it  not?” 

44  Which  is  ‘Harry’?” 

“ Harry  is  the  grumpy-looking  one  over  there— the  one 
who  came  back  in  the  carriage  with  you.  He  would  give 
the  world  at  this  moment  to  pitch  me  out  of  the  window.” 
44  Why?” 

44  Never  mind  why.  It  is  his  nasty  temper.” 

44  He  wouldn’t  find  it  so  easy,  I should  think.” 

44  No.  We  should  be  always  pitching  each  other  out  of 
the  window  if  we  were  not  so  well  matched;  as  it  is,  when 
any  of  us  are  excited  beyond  endurance,  we  pitch  the  child 
out.” 

44  The  child?” 

44  Yes — that  great  gawky  boy  who  thought  he  was  going 
to  have  all  your  conversation  to  himself  by  putting  you 
between  himself  and  my  father.  He  hasn’t  come  to  his 
full  strength  yet.  We  can  still  do  great  execution  upon 
him  if  we  take  him  unawares.” 

The  talk  continued  chiefly  on  his  side  until  the  general 
conversation  turned  upon  racing,  and  he  hastened,  with 
an  eager  interest  which  no  woman  could  excite  in  him,  to 
join  in  the  argument  that  was  going  forward.  When  he 
again  glanced  at  the  girl  by  his  side,  she  was  looking  puz- 
zled and  rather  prim. 

44  Our  talk  about  horses  and  betting  shocks  you,  I see,” 
he  laughed.  44  You  think  it  very  wicked.” 

44  No,  indeed,  I don’t.  But  I am  not  used  to  it.  It  is  so 
new  to  me,  at  least,  since  I have  been  a governess.” 

44  Since  you  have  been  a governess?  Well,  that  can’t  be 
very  long.  And  did  you  hear  talk  like  ours  before?” 

44 Not— quite  like  yours;  but  I have  heard  gentlemen 
talk  about  racing  and  theaters,  and — things  like  that,  at 
home,  before  my  father  died.” 

44  Is  that  long  ago?” 

44  No  ’’—rather  tremulously. 

44  Are  you  happy  at  the  Vicarage?” 

440h,  yes,  they  are  very  kind  to  me!” 

44  So  that  now  any  conversation  that  is  not  serious  sur- 
prises and  distresses  you?” 


12 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


“ Oh,  no;  I like  it!” 

“ You  like  our  profane  conversation?  Then  why  were 
you  looking  so  prim  just  now?  When  I turned  to  you,  you 
looked  so  solemn  and  severe,  that  the  first  words  that  oc- 
curred to  me  froze  on  my  lips.  I hadn’t  a word  to  say.” 

“ That  was  because  I can’t  talk  about  horses.” 

The  little  governess  plucked  up  spirit  enough  to  fire  this 
shot  under  cover  of  the  rising  of  the  ladies,  and  George 
Braithwaite  followed  the  small  retreating  figure  with  his 
eyes  with  more  interest  than  he  had  yet  felt  in  her.  In 
the  talk  with  his  father  and  brothers  which  now  went  on 
unrestrainedly  upon  their  favorite  topics,  Harry  found 
occasion  to  disagree  with  his  eldest  brother  upon  every 
point.  George  bore  this  with  a good-humor  he  seldom 
showed  except  when  he  wished  to  be  irritating.  The 
younger  was  already  almost  at  boiling-point  when  they 
left  the  dining-room,  where  it  had  been  unanimously  de- 
cided that  Miss  Lane  was  very  pretty,  but  had  no  spirit, 
no  “go,”  and  that  the  Vicarage  had  crushed  all  the  youth 
out  of  everything  about  her  but  her  face. 

George  and  Harry  left  the  dining-room,  the  former  by 
the  door,  the  latter  by  the  French  window ; and  they  en- 
tered the  drawing-room  at  the  same  moment.  Their 
mother  and  sister  were  at  the  piano  looking  for  a missing 
song,  but  the  demure  little  figure  in  white  was  not  in  the 
room.  George  merely  asked  if  either  of  them  had  seen 
his  cigar-case;  but  Harry  burst  out: 

“ Where’s  Miss  Lane?” 

“Oh,  the  child  has  taken  her  off  somewhere  to  play 
with  him!”  said  Lilian.  “You  all  seem  very  much  ex- 
cited about  the  governess,”  she  added  rather  contempt- 
uously. 

But  Harry  left  the  room.  Miss  Lane  was  prim,  certainly, 
and  had  nothing  to  say  for  herself;  but  she  was  very 
pretty,  and,  moreover,  he  felt  bound  to  show  George  that 
he  was  not  to  have  it  all  his  own  way,  as  he  had  seemed  at 
dinner  to  think  he  was  doing. 

He  searched  the  billiard-room,  the  morning-room,  opened 
the  windows,  and  looked  out  on  to  the  lawn.  At  last  he 
thought  he  heard  the  sound  of  laughter  up  stairs,  and, 
mounting  the  staircase  in  a few  bounds,  he  was  led  by  the 
excited  cries  of  “the  child!” — “Take  care.!”— “ Well 
done!” — “Caught,  by  Jove!” — and  by  girlish  laughter  and 
the  scuffling  of  feet  toward  the  picture-gallery.  On  the 
inner  side  of  the  door  by  which  he  entered  it  hung  a heavy 
curtain;  he  pulled  it  aside  just  far  enough  to  peep  through 
into  the  long  half-lighted  gallery. 

There  stood  the  grave,  sedate,  prematurely  old  governess 
of  half  an  hour  before  panting  with  laughter  and  exertion 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


18 


in  the  pause  after  a game  of  shuttlecock.  There  was  no 
mistaking  the  fact ; for  she  still  held  the  battledoor  in  one 
hand  while  she  rallied  William  on  his  clumsiness. 

“ If  you  try  to  catch  it  so,  you  must  miss  it,  and  perhaps 
lose  your  balance,  besides  exhibiting  yourself  in  an  ex- 
tremely ungraceful  attitude;”  and  she  threw  out  her  arms 
in  laughing  imitation  of  him  in  the  act  of  saving  himself 
from  a fall.  “ Now  try  again.  Are  you  ready?” 

“ Yes,  I should  think  so!  You  sha’n’t  laugh  at  me  this 
time!” 

The  game  began  again.  The  shuttlecock  was  tossed  from 
the  one  to  the  other  amid  cries  and  more  laughter,  both 
combatants  being  nimble,  quick  of  eye  and  hand,  and  as 
much  excited  as  if  their  very  lives  depended  on  the  keep- 
ing up  of  the  flimsy  thing  of  leather  and  feathers. 
Harry’s  own  breath  came  and  went  as  fast  as  theirs  as  he 
watched,  not  the  game,  but  the  graceful,  active  little 
player  in  white,  whose  movements  in  the  abandon  of  the 
game  had  a fascination  such  as  no  famous  dancer  he  had 
ever  seen  had  exercised  upon  him;  and  when,  as,  once 
more  pausing,  the  shuttlecock  fell  to  the  ground,  she  stood 
panting  under  the  soft  light  of  a Chinese  lantern,  her 
cheeks  flushed,  her  dark  eyes  sparkling,  her  beautiful 
brown  hair  shining  as  her  head  moved,  and  her  lips 
parted  with  smiles,  the  blood  mounted  to  his  face,  and  he 
watched  her,  with  all  the  passionate  admiration  of  his 
twenty  years  in  his  heart  ana  in  his  eyes.  He  dared  not 
move ; he  would  not  for  the  world  have  broken  the  charm 
by  letting  her  know  that  the  game  had  a spectator.  * 

A minute  later  the  shuttlecock  was  flying  again.  Op- 
posite to  the  door  where  Harry  was  standing  hidden  was 
another  door;  and,  as,  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  toy 
in  the  air  above  her  head,  Miss  Lane  tripped  backward 
against  the  curtain,  her  foot  caught  in  its  folds,  she  stum- 
bled, and  might  have  fallen,  had  not  an  arm  from  behind 
the  curtain  caught  and  saved  her.  It  was  George’s.  He 
had  taken  up  his  position  just  as  his  brother  had  taken  his 
a few  minutes  later,  at  the  opposite  door. 

Quick  as  thought,  Miss  Lane  had  shrunk  at  the  touch  of 
the  unexpected  hand  into  the  shell  of  demure  propriety  she 
generally  wore. 

She  showed  not  even  surprise,  only  a little  shame  and 
confusion. 

“ Thank  you.  I am  much  obliged  to  you,”  said  she, 
modestly,  without  raising  her  eyes,  extricating  herself 
gently  from  the  obliging  arm.  “ I— I caught  the  curtain 
with  my  foot.” 

“ Are  you  sure  you  have  not  twisted  your  ankle?”  asked 
George,  bending  down  over  her  with  great  solicitude. 


14 


a Vagrant  wire. 


“ Quite,  thank  you.” 

George  bowed  his  handsome  head  still  lower,  and  mur- 
mured mischievously. 

“ Now  I see  why  I couldn’t  amuse  you  at  dinner.  It 
was  becanse  I can’t  talk  about  shuttlecocks!” 

She  colored,  but  made  no  answer,  except  by  a mischiev- 
ous smile  as  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his  face.  Harry  came 
out  from  behind  his  curtain. 

“Will  you  come  and  have  a game  at  billiards,  Miss 
Lane?  I’ll  teach  you.” 

“I  can  play  a little;  but  I musn’t  now,  thank  you.  I 
must  go  back  to  the  Vicarage.  ” 

“How  anxious  you  are  to  get  away  from  us!”  said 
George. 

“Oh,  indeed,  it  is  not  that!  I haven’t  been  so  happy 
for,  oh,  I don’t  know  how  long,  as  I have  been  here  to- 
day!” 

“ Then  why  are  you  in  such  a hurry  to  get  away?” 

“I  am  not  in  a hurry;  it  is  because  I must  go,”  said 
she,  the  almost  child- like  gayety  quite  gone  out  of  her 
voice,  which  remained  sweet,  but  low  and  grave;  “be- 
sides, I — I ought  not  to  have  enjoyed  myself  so  much.  I 
had  forgotten.” 

“Forgotten  what?”  said  George,  kindly. 

“ To-day — my  confirmation.  It  was  wrong,  very  wrong 
of  me!  Such  an  example  for  my  pupil  Betty,  too !’  ’ 

George  could  not  help  smiling. 

“ I don’t  think  your  bad  example  would  do  much  harm 
to  Betty,  Miss  Lane.  I dare  say  she  wishes  she  had  a 
chance  of  spending  her  evening  in  the  same  way.” 

“I  am  afraid  she  does,”  said  the  governess,  simply. 

Then,  hearing  the  voices  of  Lady  Braithwaite  and  her 
daughter  outside,  she  went  out  to  meet  them,  followed  by 
“the  child,”  and  leaving  the  two  elder  brothers  face  to 
face. 

“Charming  little  creature!  That  dash  of  the  prig 
leaves  her  a delicious  spice  of  novelty,”  said  George,  light- 
ing a cigar,  and  seeming  not  to  notice  his  brother’s  frowns. 

“ I thought  ‘ you  didn’t  choose  your  goddesses  out  of  the 
Sunday-school’?  I thought  I ‘was  to  have  undisturbed 
enjoyment  of  my  discovery,  as  far  as  you  were  con- 
cerned ’?” 

“ And  so  you  might  have  had,  if  you  had  had  the  wit  to 
forestall  me.  The  pleasure  of  her  society  was  absolutely 
forced  upon  me,  for  I could  not  leave  a defenseless  woman 
to  be  bored  to  death  all  through  dinner  by  William  and 
Sir  George.” 

“Where  are  you  going?”  asked  the  other,  sharply,  for 
George  had  his  hand  upon  the  door. 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


18 


“ To  the  stables,  if  you  have  no  objection.” 

“Yob  are  not  going  to  see  Miss  Lane  home?”  shouted 
Harry. 

“By  Jove,  I never  thought  of  it!  But  it  would  be  a 
good  action  to  save  the  poor  little  woman  from  a tete-a-tete 
with  such  a cub.” 

In  his  delight  at  tormenting  his  fiery -tempered  brother, 
George  had  gone  a little  too  far.  As  he  lounged  against 
the  doorway,  a sudden  blow  had  sent  him  reeling  back 
into  the  gallery,  the  door  was  slammed,  and  his  brother 
was  at  the  other  end  of  the  corridor  before  he  could  say  a \ 
word.  Harry  met  his  sister  in  the  corridor. 

“ Where’s  Miss  Lane?” 

“Why?  What  do  you  want  with  Miss  Lane?” 

“Never  mind.  Where  is  she?” 

•But  his  sister  was  in  a teasing  mood.  She  had  more 
than  George’s  cruelty  in  her  disposition,  and,  being  a girl, 
she  could  give  it  freer  rein.  She  delighted  in  watching 
the  excited  working  of  Harry’s  face  as  she  evaded  his 
questions. 

“My  dear  boy,  I am  not  Miss  Lane’s  guardian-angel. 
You  should  ask  4 the  child  ’ where  she  is.” 

“For  Heaven’s  sake,  don’t  torment  me  so!  You  met 
her  outside  the  picture-gallery  a few  minutes  ago,  and 
took  her  away  with  you.” 

“Oh,  sol  did!  But  you  see  I’ve  dropped  her  some- 
where.” 

Harry  seized  her  arm  and  shook  it  roughly.  But  the 
action  only  roused  the  girl’s  spirit  from  idle  teasing  to  hot 
defiance. 

“ Do  you  think  you  can  make  me  tell  you?  If  you  were 
to  kill  me,  I wouldn’t  tell  you  unless  I chose!”— and  she 
shook  herself  free  with  a violence  which  sent  him  stagger- 
ing a few  paces. 

He  changed  his  tactics. 

“ Don’t  be  silly,  Lil.  You  know  I didn’t  mean  to  hurt 
you;  and,  if  we  did  come  to  blows,  you  would  be  just  as 
likely  to  hurt  me.  But  do  tell  me  where  Miss  Lane  is.  ” 

“ She’s  gone.” 

“Gone!  Alone?” 

“No.  Stephen  has  gone  with  her;  and  it  was  I who 
sent  him,”  said  she,  defiantly. 

“ Oh,  to  annoy  me,  I suppose?” 

‘ 4 Partly,  perhaps — you  and  George.  I thought  there 
had  been  quite  fuss  enough  made  about  the  little  governess, 
and  I thought  that  Stephen,  being  a cripple,  and,  therefore, 
not  quite  so  rough  as  you,  would  make  her  a safer  escort.” 

Without  a word  in  answer,  Harry  gave  her  a sharp  box 
on  the  ear,  and  swung  himself  into  the  hall  over  the 


16 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


balusters,  dashed  into  the  garden,  and  plunging  into  a 
shrubbery  to  a short  cut  to  the  road,  came  out  scratched 
and  breathless  a few  yards  behind  Miss  Lane  and  Stephen. 

“You  had  better  go  in,  Stephen,  or  you’ll  make  your 
cold  worse.  I’ll  see  Miss  Lane  safely  "home,”  said  he, 
abruptly. 

A hot  flush  came  over  the  cripple’s  face. 

“You’ve  grown  very  considerate  for  me— for  once,”  he 
said,  bitterly.  “ Did  Lilian  send  you?” 

“No;  it  would  have  been  better  for  her  if  she  had.” 

‘ ‘ What  have  you  done  to  her?’  ’ cried  Stephen,  anxiously. 

“I’ve  only  boxed  her  ears  for  impertinence,”  said 
Harry,  haughtily. 

“You  brute!  How  dared  you?  I wish  George  had 
seen  you.” 

“ George  was  lying  on  his  back  in  the  picture  gallery, 
where  I left  him.” 

A sharp  cry  escaped  the  lips  of  the  little  governess. 

“What!  You  have  hurt  your  brother — perhaps  killed 
him!” 

“ I haven’t  hurt  him,  Miss  Lane,”  said  Harry,  with  an 
uncomfortable  blush.  “ I shouldn’t  have  touched  him  if 
he  hadn’t  wanted  to  prevent  my  seeing  you  home.  You 
will  let  me  now,  won’t  you  ?”  said  he,  with  sudden  gentle- 
ness. 

“ Thank  you.  Mr.  Lawler  has  offered  to  take  me,”  an- 
swered she,  freezingly. 

“But  Mr.  Lawler  has  a bad  cold,  and  ought  not  to  be 
out  at  night.” 

“ Then  I will  go  home  alone.” 

Harry  turned  white  with  rage.  The  handsome  lad  was 
not  used  to  snubs  from  women  of  any  class,  when  he  took 
the  trouble  to  pay  them  any  attention.  Stephen’s  eyes 
gleamed  maliciously. 

“ You  won’t  send  me  back?  The  air  won’t  hurt  me  in 
the  least ; I am  out  in  it  every  night,  ’ ’ said  he,  eagerly. 

She  could  not  refuse  the  cripple,  and,  bowing  very 
coldly  to  Harry,  she  went  on  with  Stephen  toward  the 
Vicarage. 

It  was  always  a terrible  ordeal  to  the  sensitive  little 
Southron  to  shake  four  cold  hands  and  smile  “ good-night  ” 
up  into  four  cold  faces  when,  the  day’s  work  over,  she 
could  run  through  the  garden  to  the  cottage  built  in  one 
corner  of  it,  where  she  lived  with  an  old  servant  of  the 
family  to  wait  upon  her.  But  to-night  it  was  far  more 
terrible  than  it  had  ever  been  before.  One  degree  more  of 
frost  in  the  manner  of  papa,  mamma,  eldest  girl,  and  sec- 
ond girl  made  her  feel  that  her  sin,  in  letting  herself  be 
carried  off  by  those  worldlings,  and  possibly  enjoying  their 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


17 


godless  society,  was  grievous  indeed.  But  they  never 
guessed  the  pain  they  were  inflicting.  Nay,  they  meant 
to  be  rather  kind  about  it ; and  Mrs.  Mainwaring  asked, 
not  without  veiled  curiosity : 

“Well,  did  you  enjoy  yourself  at  the  Grange?  I sup- 
pose fchey  were  very  kind  to  you?” 

“Oh,  yes,  very  kind.” 

“ You  had  a beautiful  dinner,  didn’t  you?”  asked  Betty, 
who  was  rather  a gourmand . 

“ Yes,  very  nice,”  answered  Miss  Lane,  who  had  indeed 
not  been  insensible  to  the  difference  between  the  cookery 
of  the  Grange  and  that  of  the  Vicarage. 

“Did  they  all  get  tipsy?”  asked  Bertram,  aged  seven, 
very  shyly. 

“ Oh,  no!  What  makes  you  ask  that,  Bertram?” 

“Ben  said  they  did,”  whispered  he,  sheepishly  with- 
drawing—Ben  was  the  coachman,  with  a dash  of  gar- 
dener. 

“Did  you  think  them  nice?”  asked  Joan,  inquisitori- 
ally. 

“They  were  all  very  kind;  but,  oh,  they  quarrel  dread- 
fully!” 

“ You  wouldn’t  like  to  be  governess  there,  I suppose?” 

“Oh,  no,  Mrs.  Mainwaring!”  answered  Miss  Lane,  fer- 
vently and  sincerely. 

Yet,  when  she  was  once  more  alone,  trying  faithfully  to 
banish  outward  thoughts  and  prepare  herself  for  her  pray 
ers,  the  admiration,  the  warm  kindliness  of  the  wrong-head- 
ed Braithwaites  would  rush  in  and  contrast  itself  with  the 
logical  conduct  of  the  Mainwarings,  who  hung  about  her 
when  she  was  in  high  spirits  and  neglected  her  when  she 
was  unhappy  and  unwell. 

“ I do  hope  he  is  not  hurt!”  was  her  last  thought. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Meanwhile  Stephen  Lawler  had  returned  to  the  Grange, 
happy  in  the  favor  pretty  Miss  Lane  had  accorded  him  at 
the  expense  of  Harry,  whom  he  hated  with  a hatred  which, 
if  unreasonable,  was  not  without  excuse.  He  joined  his 
cousins  in  the  billiard- room,  where  a hot  quarrel  between 
George  and  Harry  was  only  just  kept  from  blazing  forth 
afresh  by  the  presence  of  their  father,  the  only  power  on 
earth  which  could  keep  in  check  the  ungovernable  pas- 
sions of  his  unruly  brood.  Stephen  glanced  from  one  to 
the  other  of  the  two  angry,  flushed  faces,  and  rolled  the 
spot- ball  along  the  table  in  an  idle  manner,  through  which 
the  least  glimpse  of  the  conqueror  showed.  Georg© 
laughed  unpleasantly. 


18 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


4 4 Stephen  looks  happy.  ’ ’ 

“ He’s  the  fox  who  carried  off  the  lamb  while  the  lion 
and  tiger  were  fighting  about  it,”  said  Wilfred,  the  second 
son,  quoting  from  iEsop’s  fables  rather  at  random. 

4*  Was  she  kind,  Stephen?”  asked  George,  mockingly. 

“Very  kind — much  kinder  than  she  was  to  you.” 

“ That  goes  without  saying,  my  dear  fellow,  ” answered 
George,  with  a cruel  patronage  in  his  tone  which  made  the 
cripple  wince. 

“ All  women  don’t  worship  brutes!  I wouldn’t  enter  the 
lists  with  you  for  your  Molly  and  Sukey;  but  ladies  are 
different.” 

“ Different  from  what?  From  Molly  and  Sukey,  or  from 
Miss  Lane,  the  governess?” 

“Ah,  you  can  look  down  upon  ‘Miss  Lane,  the  govern- 
ess,’ since  she  calls  you  a brute!” 

44  When  did  sue  call  me  a brute?  It’s  a lie !”  said  George, 
sharply. 

“It’s  not  a lie!  She  said  you  and  Harry  were  both 
brutes;  and,  by  Jove,  she  was  right!” 

George  raised  his  fist,  but  dropped  it  with  an  ostenta- 
tious self  restraint. 

44  You  are  a privileged  person,”  said  he,  coolly. 

Stephen  sprung  forward  and  struck  him  in  the  face ; but 
George  remained  as  irritatingly  quiet  as  ever. 

“But  you  shouldn’t  presume  upon  your  advantages. 
You  can  tell  lies  as  other  gentlemen  may  not  do,  and  you 
can  strike  a man  without  getting  struck  back;  but  you 
can’t  expect  to  hold  your  own  with  a woman  against  me,  or 
even  Harry.  It’s  absurd!” 

“ What  do  you  mean  by  4 even  Harry?’  ” asked  the  third 
brother,  savagely. 

“ What  I mean  by  it  in  this  case  is  that,  by  a little  care- 
ful management  you  might  have  got  the  tete-a-tete  you 
wanted  with  pretty  Miss  Lane,  but  that,  if  I had  stepped 
in,  not  all  the  management  in  the  world  would  have  availed 
you  to  get  what  you  wanted.” 

“You  think  yourself  irresistible?” 

'“No,  I don’t.  But  I think  I know  more  about  women 
than  you  do;  and  I’m  not  quite  such  a cub  as  to  think  I can 
impress  a woman  favorably  by  merely  staring  across  the 
dinner-table  at  her  and  insulting  everybody  who  is  civil  to 
her.” 

Harry  grew  red  at  this  home- thrust. 

“ And  I suppose  you  think  you  have  impressed  her  very 
favorably  by  drawling  compliments  into  her  ear  one  min- 
ute and  turning  your  back  to  her  the  next?” 

“That’s  all  his  science,”  said  Wilfred,  who  had  been 
prinking  more  than  the  rest,  but  who  had  as  much  wit 


a vagrant  wife, 

when  he  was  tipsy  as  his  brothers  had  when  they  were 
sober. 

“ Well,  haven’t  we  exhausted  the  little  governess?” 
asked  George,  yawning. 

“Yes;  let  us  talk  of  the  Duchess  of  Shoreditch,”  pro- 
posed Wilfred,  mimicking  him. 

“ Oh,  y-e-s,  we  will!’  ’ said  Harry,  following  his  example 
rather  clumsily.  “You  might  have  condescended  to  see  a 
duchess  home  yourself,  perhaps?” 

“ To  the  man  of  principle  all  women  are  duchesses,”  an- 
swered Wilfred,  who  was  becoming  tiresome. 

“My  dear  Wilfred,  what  do  you  know  about  the  man  of 
principle?”  asked  his  eldest  brother,  with  a look  which  re- 
called to  the  sententious  one  various  occasions  on  which  his 
morality  had  given  way  rather  suddenly.  “All  women 
are  not  duchesses;  and  I would  rather  see  a governess  home 
on  a moonlit  evening  than  a duchess,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  I should  get  better  paid  for  my  trouble.” 

“Not  by  Miss  Lane!”  cried  Harry,  starting  up,  his  face 
aflame. 

George  did  not  answer. 

“Not  by  Miss  Lane!”  said  Harry  again,  in  a louder 
voice.  “Answer,  you— conceited  liar!” 

“It  is  of  no  use  to  continue  the  discussion  if  you  only  lose 

your  temper  and  throw  your  manners  to  the  winds ’ ’ 

“ Harry’s  manners !”  chuckled  Wilfred ; but  nobody  took 
any  notice  of  him. 

“ Say  what  you  mean  then,  or  by ” 

“ I only  mean  that  I should  have  neglected  my  oppor- 
tunities, and  put  a cruel  slight  upon  a very  pretty  girl,  if  I 
had  not  got  a kiss  when  I wished  her  good-night.” 

“She  would  never  have  spoken  to  you  again  if  you  had 

done  such  a thing.  She  would  have  boxed  your  ears ” 

“ She  would  have  done  nothing  of  the  kind.  Your  ex- 
perience being  confined  to  barmaids,  who  very  naturally 
resent  your  rough  overtures  in  the  free-and-easy  manner 
you  describe,  you  cannot  tell  how  a woman  of  more  refine- 
ment accepts  the  homage  due  to  her  charms  when  it  is 
properly  offered.” 

“ I think  this  is  blackguard  talk,”  said  Wilfred;  but  the 
time  had  long  gone  past  for  him  to  get  a hearing. 

“You  think  she  would  have  let  you  kiss  her  willingly?” 
said  Harry,  not  so  loudly  as  before,  but  with  his  whole 
frame  quivering  with  restless  excitement. 

“ I don’t  wish  to  be  boastful,  but  I think  it  most  likely.” 
“It’s  a ” 

Stephen  shook  his  cousin’s  arm. 

“ Let  him  prove  it,  Harry;  let  him  prove  it.” 

But  Harr;^  shrunk  from  that.  He  was  as  thoughtless 


20 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 

and  unprincipled  as  the  rest  of  them;  but  he  was  not 
blase.  He  was  only  twenty ; and  some  instincts  of  chivalry 
and  respect  for  the  beautiful  girl  whose  name  was  being 
bandied  about  so  freely  made  him  hesitate. 

“ He  knows  better  than  to  agree  to  that!”  sneered 
George, 

“Why  don’t  you  try  to  be  beforehand  with  him?”  sug- 
gested Stephen. 

“I  will,  by  Jovel”  said  Harry,  stung  and  excited  past 
all  scruples.  “We’ll  see  if  my  rough  overtures  may  not 
be  more  to  her  taste  than  your  what-do-you-call-it  homage. 
I bet  Fire  King  to  a five- pound  note  I’ll  have  a kiss  from 
her  to-morrow.” 

“Willingly,  mind?” 

“Willingly,” 

“ Done,  then!  [But  how  am  I to  be  sure  you  have  won 
fairly  if  you  come  and  claim  it?” 

“You  will  have  my  word.” 

There  was  a general  laugh.  There  are  .some  families,  as 
lawless  as  the  Braithwaites,  in  which  truth  is  part  of  their 
code,  and  a lie  held  to  be  beneath  a gentleman ; but  the 
Braithwaites,  while  fiercely  proud  of  their  birth,  consid- 
ered that  it  placed  them  above  obligations,  and  that 
the  title  “gentleman,”  descended  to  them  from  their 
fathers,  was  a sort  of  inherited,  inalienable  fortune  which 
required  no  effort  of  theirs  to  support  or  to  increase. 

However,  Harry  having  refused  to  let  the  bet  hold  ex- 
cept on  this  condition,  it  was  resolved  to  trust  him,  George 
having  fully  made  up  his  mind  to  supplement  his  brother’s 
account  of  the  interview  by  the  evidence  of  his  own 
eyes. 

The  next  morning,  at  breakfast  time,  when  the  wine  was 
gone  out  of  his  head  and  his  temper  was  cooler,  Harry  was 
a little  ashamed  of  his  bet,  for  to  increase  his  compunc- 
tion came  the  very  strongest  doubts  as  to  his  power  to  win 
it.  However,  when  George  asked  with  a sneer  whether 
he  did  not  wish  the  bet  were  off,  his  brother  answered 
fiercely  that  he  never  made  bets  which  he  did  not  intend 
to  keep.  So  George  only  shrugged  his  shoulders,  told  him 
he  was  a fool,  and  walked  off  to  the  stable-yard,  already 
looking  upon  his  brother’s  favorite  horse,  Fire  King,  as 
his  own  by  right,  although  he  did  not  expect  to  enter  into 
possession  without  a struggle.  In  spite  of  his  ostenta- 
tiously cynical  speeches  the  night  before,  his  own  respect 
for  the  demure  girl-governess  stood  higher  than  he  wished 
to  have  it  believed,  and  he  thought  it  extremely  unlikely 
that  his  younger  brother,  who  was  still  at  the  stage  of 
being  alternately  boisterous  and  shy  with  women,  would 
even  risk  a meeting  with  Miss  Lane. 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


21 

But  Harry,  nerved  by  the  danger  of  losing  Fire  King, 
had  strung  himself  up  to  do  great  things.  Fate  favored 
him. 

It  was  Saturday ; and  on  that  day  the  vicar’s  children 
always  had  a half  holiday,  and  their  governess  was  free  to 
spend  the  afternoon  as  she  liked.  When  it  was  fine  she 
generally  used  her  liberty  to  enjoy  her  one  chance  in  the 
week  of  a walk  by  herself,  and  with  a book— some  solidly 
instructive  book  in  her  hand,  just  to  justify  her  ramble 
to  herself  and  relieve  her  conscience  of  the  reproach  of 
“wasting  her  time.”  So  on  this  Saturday  afternoon  she 
had  strolled  out  with  a sketch-book  and  a small  camp- 
stool,  and,  after  wandering  through  the  fields  alongside 
the  hedges,  watching  the  young  rabbits  playing  about  their 
holes,  gathering  a few  late  primroses,  singing  to  herself 
all  the  while  very  happily,  she  opened  her  camp-stool  in 
the  corner  of  a field  where  there  was  a pond  half  sur- 
rounded by  trees,  seated  herself,  and  began  to  draw. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  pond,  divided  from  it  by  a 
stretch  of  uneven  grass -covered  ground,  ran  a private 
road,  and  beyond  that  was  a thick  plantation  from  which, 
unknown  to  her,  Harry  had  for  some  time  been  watching 
the  governess;  and  further  along  the  road  were  some 
stables  and  outbuildings,  in  the  shelter  of  which  his 
brother  George  had  been  for  some  time  watching  Harry. 

Miss  Lane  set  to  work  with  the  dry  enthusiasm  of  the 
conscientious  amateur,  and  was  soon  too  much  absorbed 
in  calculating  distances  and  making  little  dots  on  the  paper 
with  her  pencil  to  notice  Harry,  until,  by  making  a long 
circuit  through  the  plantation,  across  the  road  and  along 
the  edge  of  the  field  she  was  in,  he  came  through  the  long 
grass  to  her  side.  Filled  with  the  guilty  consciousness  of 
the  enterprise  he  had  in  hand,  he  was  half  sheepish,  half 
bold,  and  Miss  Lane’s  greeting,  which  was  a rather  cold 
little  bow  and  a complete  ignoring  of  his  proffered  hand, 
did  not  help  him  to  recover  his  self-possession. 

“You  are  drawing,  I see,”  he  remarked,  rather  huskily. 

“Yes,”  said  she.  Then,  as  there  was  a pause  which 
her  companion  evidently  did  not  know  how  to  fill,  she 
added,  glancing  first  at  her  paper,  and  then  at  the  pond 
in  front  of  her,  “It  doesn’t  look  much  like  it  yet,  does 
it?” 

“ I dare  say  it  will^ook  more  like  when  it  is  finished.” 

“No,  it  won’t,”  said  Miss  Lane,  candidly;  “that  is  the 
worst  of  it.  I can’t  draw,  though  I really  do  try  very 
hard.” 

“Then  why  do  you  give  yourself  all  the  trouble  of  try- 
ing?” 

Harry  felt  that  his  share  in  the  talk  was  not  in  the  style 


23  A VAGRANT  WINN, 

he  had  intended,  but  her  rather  stiff  simplicity  of  m&niier 
disconcerted  him. 

“ It  is  an  excuse  for  coming  out  of  doors.” 

“ An  excuse?  I never  want  one.  I only  want  excuses 
for  not  coming  home.  I hate  houses— they  are  so  beastly 
stuffy;  don’t  you  think  so?” 

He  felt  he  was  getting  further  and  further  from  the 
lover-like  manner  which  was  to  overcome  Miss  Lane ; but 
he  could  not  help  it.  She  considered  a little  before  an- 
swering. 

“I  like  houses  too — some  houses,  I wonder  you  don’t 
like  yours.  I think  it  is  one  of  the  nicest  I have  ever  been 
in.” 

“Do  you?  Do  you  like  it  better  than  the  Vicarage?” 

“Oh,  yes!  The  Vicarage  is  only  a place  to  eat  and 
drink  and  sleep  in!”  she  said,  scornfully.  “As  for  the 
drawing-room,  everything  in  it  is  an  insult  to  one’s  eyes.” 

“ I suppose  you  mean  that  it  is  not  artistic,  ” said  Harry. 
“But  it  isn’t  the  furniture  that  insults  me;  it  is  the  people. 
I feel  as  if  I were  in  church,  or  as  if  I had  had  a bucket  of 
cold  water  over  me  when  I didn’ t expect  it,  directly  I get 
inside  the  house.’  ’ 

“ Oh,  don’t  say  that!  They  are  all  very  kind.” 

“Then  you  like  the  Vicarage  people  better  than  the 
Grange  people?” 

“ 1 did  not  say  that.  But  I know  them  better.” 

“Oh,  yes;  I remember!  You  said  we  were  a set  of 
brutes.” 

He  felt  that  this  was  worse  and  worse ; he  was  getting 
positively  rude. 

“I  have  never  said  anything  of  the  kind,  Mr.  Braith- 
waite,”  said  she,  coldly. 

“Didn’t  you  tell  Stephen  that  George  and  I were 
brutes?” 

“I  did  say  it  was  brutal  to  box  your  sister’s  ears  and 
knock  your  brother  down  just  because  they  contradicted 
you ; and  I think  so, 5 ’ said  Miss  Lane,  quietly. 

“But  it  was  about  you.  It  was  because  they  wouldn’t 
tell  me  where  you  were,  and  wouldn’t  let  me  see  you 
home.” 

“That  doesn’t  make  any  difference.” 

This  answer  was  a blow.  Miss  Lane  was  the  first  woman 
who  had  ever  excited  in  him  any  bu&the  most  fleeting  ad- 
miration. He  looked  upon  women  as  a nuisance  in  the 
hunting-field  and  a positive  danger  at  a battue , pretty 
things  whose  society  at  any  sort  of  gathering  gave  one 
more  trouble  than  it  was  worth,  and  who  ought  accord- 
ingly to  feel  deeply  grateful  for  any  admiration  that  might 
be  cast  to  them.  Of  course  this  applied  only  to  his  equals ; 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


n 

with  women  of  a lower  rank  he  was  at  his  ease ; and  it 
was  a current  prophecy  that  he  would  be  a bachelor  till 
he  was  forty  five,  and  then  marry  his  cook.  So  he  looked 
down  at  Miss  Lane  in  amazement  without  speaking,  when 
she  thus  candidly  stated  that  his  admiration  44  didn’t  make 
any  difference.” 

“Then  you  hate  me,  I see,”  said  he,  at  last,  deeply  hurt 
and  offended. 

“ Hate  you?  No;  indeed  I don’t,  Mr.  Braithwaite!”  she 
answered,  rising. 

It  had  only  just  dawned  upon  her  that  his  unusually 
restless  manner  and  his  flushed  face  were  the  result  of  any- 
thing but  his  natural  awkwardness,  and  she  was  anxious 
to  cut  the  interview  short,  for  fear  any  of  the  Main  war  - 
ings  should  pass—  they  would  perhaps  not  even  believe  she 
had  met  him  by  accident. 

44  Then  why  do  you  want  to  run  away  from  me?  I may 
be  a brute;  but  I won’t  hurt  you.” 

“Oh,  no;  I am  not  afraid  of  that!”  said  she,  her  face 
breaking  into  the  bright,  childlike  smile  that  made  her  so 
charming  to  him.  “But  it  is  really  time  for  me  to 
go  in.” 

She  held  out  her  hand;  but  he  did  not  seem  to  see  it. 
He  was  positively  shaking  with  nervousness,  preparing  for 
a bold  stroke. 

“Won’t  you  shake  hands,  or  have  I offended  you  too 
deeply?”  she  asked,  with  simple,  smiling  coquetry. 

Harry  jerked  his  head  suddenly  down  to  her  upturned 
face,  and  kissed  her.  George,  who  was  observing  this 
scene,  watched  for  the  girl’s  start,  listened  for  the 
scream. 

But  there  was  neither.  She  remained  quite  still,  with- 
out a sound  but  a short,  quick  sob  that  George  was  too  far 
off  to  hear,  and  he  could  only  see  that  she  bent  her  head, 
without  being  able  to  catch  the  expression  of  her  face. 
He  watched  a moment  longer,  then,  with  a curious  look 
of  cynical  surprise,  turned  and  sauntered  back  to  the 
Grange. 

But  Harry  was  near  enough  to  know  better.  He  saw 
the  color  leave  her  cheeks  and  her  very  lips,  and  he  knew 
that  his  impertinence  had  made  her  dumb  and  still  with 
horror.  Then  the  tears  began  to  gather  in  her  eyes ; she 
stooped  to  feel  blindly  for  the  book  she  had  dropped,  then 
turned  her  back  upon  him  without  a word. 

In  a moment  he  was  mad  with  remorse. 

“ Miss  Lane!”  said  he  huskily;  but  she  took  no  notice, 
and  began  to  walk  away. 

All  his  better  instincts  were  aroused,  and  moved  him  to 
words  less  boorish  than  usual. 


2t  A VAGRANT  WIFE. 

'Miss  Lane,”  he  repeated,  “I  would  give  my  right 
hand  to  undo  my  impertinence  or  to  make  you  forget  it ! 
Upon  my  soul,  you  cannot  hate  me  for  it  as  much  as  I 
hate  myself!  Won’t  you — won’t  you  just  look  at  me? 
Only  just  let  me  see  you  look  again  as  you  looked  before 
— even  if  you  don’t  speak.  Good  heavens,  you  look  like 
stone!” 

But  she  shook  her  head  without  looking  up. 

“Go  away,  please,”  was  all  she  said,  in  a voice  from 
which  the  bright  ring  had  gone. 

Harry  was  sobbing  himself.  _ 

“You — you  are  more  cruel  than  I,”  said  he,  unsteadily. 

But  he  dared  not  stay.  Those  few  words  of  dismissal 
were  too  cutting  for  him  to  try  any  more  entreaties.  He 
scrambled  through  the  hedge,  rather  anxious  that  she 
should  see  he  was  hurting  himself  in  his  eagerness  to 
obey  her.  But  she  never  looked  round.  She  made  her 
way  back  to  her  cottage  more  quietly,  without  even  shed- 
ding any  more  tears.  She  was  too  much  excited  for  that. 
But,  when  she  was  once  more  in  her  little  sitting-room, 
she  gave  way,  threw  herself  on  the  floor  by  the  sofa,  and 
cried  until  she  could  scarcely  see.  She  was  so  proud,  so 
haughtily  reserved  to  men,  that  this  outrage  to  her  dig- 
nity and  self-respect  wounded  her  far  more  deeply  than  it 
would  have  done  an  ordinary  girl. 

“He  would  not  have  dared  if  I hadn’t  been  ‘ only  a gov- 
erness,’ ” she  thought  bitterly. 

In  the  meantime  Harry  had  slunk  home  to  the  Grange, 
where  the  first  person  he  met  was  George. 

“ By  Jove,  Harry,  I didn’t  think  you  had  it  in  you!”  was 
his  greeting. 

“ What  the  deuce  do  you  mean?” 

“ Nothing  but  what  is  complimentary  on  this  occasion. 
Here  are  your  five  pounds,  fairly  won.” 

He  took  out  his  pocket-book,  and  handed  a note  leisurely 
to  his  brother,  who  crumpled  it  in  his  hand  and  tossed  it 
into  a flower-bed. 

“ What!  Have  you  suddenly  grown  above  filthy  lucre? 
Very  well,  I’ll  take  it  back  again;”  and  George  was  stoop- 
ing over  a geranium  to  pick  it  up  when  his  brother  brought 
his  hand  roughly  down  upon  his  shoulder. 

“What  do  you  mean  by  this  tomfoolery?” 

“ Well,  to  be  frank,  I watched  your  interview,  quite  by 
accident,  and  saw  you  win  your  bet.” 

“ I didn’t  win  it,”  said  the  other,  surlily. 

“ Not  win  it?  Why,  I saw  you!” 

“I — tell— you — I— didn’t — win — it,”  said  Harry,  sav- 
agely. “I  kissed  her — like  a beastly  cad — and  she  looked 
as  if  I had  killed  her.” 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 26 

He  turned  round  quickly  and  made  for  the  house.  His 
brother  followed. 

“Here,  but  I say,  Harry ” 

The  other  paid  no  attention,  but  disappeared  into  the 
house. 

But  the  consequences  of  the  act  were  not  over.  When 
tea-time  came,  and,  having  bathed  her  red  and  swollen 
eyes,  Miss  Lane  appeared  in  the  family  circle,  a deadlier 
chill  than  usual  was  evidently  upon  them.  Joan  looked 
like  an  ugly  statue  of  disgust  or  some  kindred  emotion ; 
Betty’s  cheeks  were  flushed,  and  her  pretty  vacant  eyes 
bright  with  anger ; Mrs.  Main  waring  was  cold  and  nerv- 
ous; the  Rev.  Mr.  Mainwaring,  above  all  human  passions, 
was  quietly  attentive  to  his  tea  and  toast,  as  usual.  The 
governess’  heart  sunk. 

After  tea,  when  she  had  said  “Good  -night  ” in  an  agony 
under  this  frigidity,  Mrs.  Mainwaring  followed  her  into 
the  hall  and  asked  her  to  come  into  the  schoolroom  for  a 
few  minutes.  After  closing  the  door  with  ominous  care- 
fulness, the  elder  lady  faced  her  victim. 

“I  am  very  sorry  to  have  to  say  anything  of  this  kind 
to  you,  Miss  Lane;  but  I must  ask  whether  there  is  any 
sort  of  engagement  between  you  and  Mr.  Harry  Braith- 
waite?” 

“None,  Mrs.  Mainwaring,  ” said  the  girl,  white  to  the 
lips. 

“ And  is  it  true— excuse  me  for  asking— that  he  kissed 
you  this  afternoon?” 

“Yes,  Mrs.  Mainwaring.”  The  answer  came  at  once, 
clear  and  cold. 

The  elder  lady  was  disconcerted  for  a moment  by  this 
prompt  reply ; then  she  said,  between  tightly  compressed 
lips : 

“ I did  not  think  you  would  allow  a gentleman  you  were 
not  engaged  to  to  take  such  a liberty.” 

Miss  Lane  gave  a little  hard  laugh. 

“Not  a liberty,  Mrs.  Mainwaring;  surely  you  make  a 
mistake ! Mr.  Braith waite  did  not  wait  to  be  allowed ; he 
was  good  enough  to  give  me  a kiss  as  he  would,  with  his 
easy  good-nature  to  any  dependent.  I only  wonder  you 
did  not  know  me  better  than  to  think  I c ould  object.” 

Mrs.  Mainwaring  read  the  acute  misery  in  the  girl’s  face. 
She  was  sorry  for  her.  However,  as  she  m urmured  out 
rather  incoherently,  Betty  was  out  walking  and  had  seen 
the  kiss  given,  anckof  course  it  was  not  a proper  sight  for 
her,  and  would  Miss  Lane  kindly  understand  she  must 
leave  at  the  end  of  the  quarter? 

And  Miss  Lane  said  she  would  be  very  glad  to  do  go. 


26  A Vagrant  wife : 

And  so  she  would  have  been,  if  she  had  known  where 
to  go. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

It  was  now  the  end  of  May,  and  Miss  Lane  was  to  leave 
Garstone  Vicarage  in  the  last  days  of  June.  She  went 
through  the  dull  round  of  her  daily  duties  as  carefully  as 
ever;  but  the  buoyancy  of  spirit  that  had  formerly  made 
her  the  children’s  favorite  playfellow  out  of  school-hours 
had  deserted  her. 

The  meals,  at  which  the  bright  young  girl  had  once  set 
the  talk  going,  were  once  more  the  most  solemn  of  cere- 
monies. The  Reverend  Mr.  Main  waring  wished  that  that 
unlucky  kiss  had  been  ignored;  he  saw  in  fancy  her  in- 
evitable successor,  the  usual  under-bred,  old-young  gov- 
erness, without  an  idea,  but  with  a fund  of  chirpy  Small- 
talk, of  the  kind  which  he  had  suffered  before  the  advent 
of  Miss  Lane.  He  knew  she  must  be  blameless  in  this 
matter;  but  he  was  not  a man  given  to  interference  in 
domestic  affairs,  and,  as  his  wife  had  decreed  that  she 
should  go,  he  made  a half-hearted  remonstrance,  forbade 
her  being  sent  away  before  the  end  of  the  quarter,  and 
submitted. 

Joan  and  Betty,  especially  the  latter,  would  have  liked 
to  show  their  resentment  more  openly  had  they  dared; 
but  it  was  not  easy  in  face  of  their  victim’s  well-judged 
conduct.  She  was  so  grave,  so  mat  ter-of-fact,  so  pains- 
taking with  them  in  school-hours,  put  it  so  plainly  before 
them  that  their  heads  could  find  out  for  themselves  as 
much  as  she  could  tell  them — which  was  far  from  being 
the  case— that  they  could  not  but  treat  her  with  respect  in 
the  schoolroom ; while  out  of  it  she  scarcely  spoke  to  them 
more  than  was  absolutely  necessary.  But  it  was  a dull 
life  for  her;  and,  shut  out  thus  from  the  world  around 
her,  she  found  a resource  in  writing.  This  little  creature 
was  full  of  fiery  ambitions,  and  one  of  them  was  to  make 
a name  some  day  as  an  author.  So,  when  tea  was  over, 
and  she  could  throw  off  the  Mainwarings  for  the  day,  she 
hurried  through  the  garden  to  her  cottage,  and  spent  the 
last  hours  of  the  day,  half  in  quiet  study  for  self-improve- 
ment, half  with  pen,  paper,  and  her  own  fancy. 

So  the  weeks  went  on  toward  the  time  of  her  departure ; 
and  meanwhile  she  saw  no  more  of  the  Braithwaites, 
except  when  one  or  other  of  the  brothers  would  ride  past 
her  and  the  children  in  their  morning  walks. 

But  George  was  interested  enough  in  the  pretty  little 
governess  to  find  out,  without  apparent  curiosity,  that  she 
was  going  to  leave ; and  he  kept  this  discovery  to  himself. 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


21 


He  did  not  neglect  to  warn  Harry  not  to  force  himself  into 
the  girl’s  society  again;  but  he  resolved  to  have  a farewell 
interview  with  her  himself.  The  chance  came  in  the  third 
week  in  June,  when  a grand  flower-show,  held  just  out- 
side Beckham,  had  brought  all  the  scattered  neighborhood 
together. 

It  was  a showery  day,  and  the  festivities  suffered. 
Showily -dressed  and  sometimes  well-dressed  women  made 
their  way  over  sodden  grass  and  slippery  earth  from  one 
dripping  tent  to  another  under  the  umbrellas  of  men  who 
were  only  looking  out  for  a chance  of  slipping  away  for  a 
cigar,  and  did  not  care  a straw  for  the  roses  which  their 
companions  told  them  were  “lovely,”  and  were  roused 
only  to  a limp  enthusiasm  by  some  uninteresting  patent 
invention  in  the  “ agricultural  implement  ” tent. 

The  Mainwarings  were  all  there.  Gardening  was  a 
hobby  with  the  elders;  they  knew,  and  called  all  flowers 
by  their  Latin  names,  and  Mrs.  Mainwaring’s  happiest 
hours  were  spent,  with  dress  tucked  up,  hands  hugely 
gloved,  and  face  glowing  with  enthusiasm,  bedding  out 
geraniums,  or  collecting  and  carrying  off  for  destruction 
myriads  of  slugs  which  threatened  her  favorite  plants. 
Joan  and  Betty  did  not  care  much  for  flowers;  but  they 
were  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  wear  new  and  particularly 
tasteless  dull-green  gowns  trimmed  with  many  little  bits 
of  fringe  of  a different  shade,  and  their  appearance  might 
chance  to  get  them  an  invitation  to  a dance  or  a garden- 
party.  The  children  had  begged  to  go,  to  get  a holiday, 
and  Miss  Lane  went  to  look  after  them. 

So  that,  when  George  Braithwaite  came  on  to  the 
ground,  in  dutiful  attendance  upon  his  mother  and  sister, 
a rapid  inspection  of  the  tents  soon  convinced  him  that  his 
opportunity  was  come.  He  knew  better  than  to  set  to 
work  with  Harry’s  clumsiness.  He  went  up  to  the  Main- 
waring  children,  talked  to  them  a little  while  without 
taking  any  notice  of  the  governess  beyond  raising  his  hat 
to  her,  and  then  drew  Mrs.  Mainwaring’s  attention  to  a 
plant  which  he  said  had  a strange  history,  which  she  must 
ask  the  owner  to  tell  her,  insinuated  a compliment  to  lean 
pink-eyed  Joan,  and  talked  to  mother  and  daughters  for 
some  time  in  what  he  considered  his  best  manner.  And 
then  he  told  Bertram,  whose  hand  he  held  all  the  while, 
that  there  was  “a  grand  gentleman  ” making  a speech  in 
another  of  the  tents,  and  asked  him  if  he  would  not  like  to 
see  him,  and  then  asked  the  two  younger  girls  if  they, 
would  not  like  to  go  too;  and  they  all  thought  they  should 
like  to  go  anywhere  with  this  nice,  kind  gentleman,  and 
they  all  said,  “Yes.”  Then  Mr.  Braithwaite  was  afraid 


38 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


he  could  not  take  th*m  all  three  across  without  their  get- 
ting wet,  but  said  to  the  elder  of  the  two  small  girls: 

“ Ask  your  governess  to  take  Jyou  under  one  umbrella, 
and  I will  take  care  of  these  two  little  ones.” 

And  the  nice,  kind  gentleman  ran  off  with  Bertram  and 
Marian,  directing  Miss  Lane  to  follow  with  Ellen.  But 
when,  through  the  rain,  they  reached  the  long,  damp  tent 
where  the  people  were  crowding  round  a narrow  deal- 
table  to  listen  to  the  speech  which  an  insignificant-looking 
little  gentleman,  standing  in  the  mud,  was  delivering  in  a 
very  low,  monotonous  voice,  the  little  ones  were  disap- 
pointed; and  Bertram  said  he  did  not  look  grand  at  all, 
in  a voice  much  louder  than  the  speaker’s.  But  George 
still  pushed  him  benevolently  forward  through  the  crowd, 
until,  by  civil  words  and  strong  shoulders,  he  had  man- 
aged to  get  all  three  children  quite  close  to  the  table, 
where  they  could  “ hear  Lord  Ben  Nevis  distinctly  ” as  he 
whispered.  Then  he  dropped  unselfishly  into  the  back 
row  of  the  crowd  himself,  and  joined  the  governess. 

“ You  will  get  your  feet  wet  standing  in  all  this  slush,” 
said  he. 

And  he  found  a board  for  her  to  put  her  feet  on,  and  a 
kox  for  her  to  sit  on,  and  then  stood  bending  down  to  talk 
to  her  with  courteous  attention  which  would  have  brought 
tears  of  envy  to  Joan’s  eyes,  had  she  seen  him. 

“ What  a shame  of  them  to  drag  you  out  in  the  rain,” 
said  he  sympathetically. 

“Oh,  no!”  she  answered,  smiling.  “I  am  glad  to  be 
dragged  anywhere,  in  any  weather,  as  a change  from  the 
musty  old  school  rooom.” 

“ I suppose  you  are.  I can’t  imagine  how  any  girl  can 
become  a governess.” 

She  looked  up  at  him  in  pathetic  surprise. 

“I  don’t  suppose  any  girl  likes  to  be  a governess ; but 
there  is  nothing  else  for  her  if  she  is  poor.” 

“ Oh,  yes,  there  is— there’s  the  Thames!” 

“But  you  wouldn’t  recommend  that,  surely?” 

“ I don’t  know  that  I wouldn’t.  I would  try  it  myself, 
rather  than  endeavor  to  cram  knowledge  into  the  heads  of 
little  fools  who  will  never  be  any  the  better  for  it.” 

“ Oh,  don’t  say  that,”  she  entreated.  “It  is  just  what 
I am  tempted  to  think  myself  sometimes ; but,  if  I gave 
way  and  really  did  believe  I wasn’t  doing  them  any  good 
at  all,  just  think  what  a martyrdom  my  life  would  be!” 
“So  it  is,”  said  he,  looking  with  his  eyes  a stronger 
meaning  than  his  words  bore. 

She  cast  hers  down  and  blushed.  She  had  all  a girl’s 
thirst  for  admiration,  and  the  unaccustomed  attention  of 
a handsome  man  threw  fresh  charm  into  her  manner. 


A VAGRANT  WIFE \ 2$ 

brightened  her  eyes,  and  made  her  lovelier  than  she 
dreamed. 

“If  not  the  Thames,  what  is  there — what  profession?” 
Bhe  asked  as  his  eyes  answered  her. 

“ Well,  there  is  the  stage.” 

“The  stage!”  she  echoed,  in  horror.  “You  wouldn’t 
advise  that,  surely!” 

“You  speak  of  it  with  more  horror  than  of  the  Thames.  ” 
“ Why,  yes!  I’d  rather  be  a corpse  than  an  actress!” 

“ But  you  wouldn’t  have  such  a lively  time  of  it,”  said 
he,  dryly. 

“ But,  oh,  to  be  stared  at  by  everybody,  and  to  paint, 
and  be  among  horrid  people,  and  for  everybody  else  to 

look  down  upon  you,  and Oh,  I should  not  like  it  at 

all.” 

“Well,  isn’t  it  better  to  be  looked  at  by  everybody  than 
not  to  be  looked  at,  at  all?  But  I suggested  it  only  as  an 
alternative  to  the  Thames.  Seriously,  the  Vicarage  school- 
room must  be  a dull  place.” 

“ It  is.  But  I am  going  to  leave  it,”  she  answered,  look- 
ing away,  and  her  face  flushing. 

“Are  you?  I thought  you  would  not  be  able  to  stand  it 
long.  You  may  do  much  better,  and,  at  any  rate,  you 
have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  you  can’t  do  worse.” 
“I  don’t  know  about  that,”  said  she,  very  gravely. 

“At  any  rate,  you  will  have  a pleasant  holiday  among 
your  friends  first.” 

She  gave  a rather  grim  smile. 

“I  don’t  know  about  that,  either.  A semi-detached 
villa  in  the  suburbs,  among  a family  of  children  compared 
to  whom  the  Main  war  in  gs  are  angels,  is  not  the  place  one 
would  choose  for  a holiday.” 

“You  have  a lot  of  young  brothers  and  sisters,  then?” 
“Oh,  no,  I have  none!  I am  an  orphan;  so  I have  to 
spend  my  spare  time  with  an  aunt  who  doesn’t  particu- 
larly want  me.” 

“ That  is  hard  lines.  Then  you  will  teach  again?” 

“Yes,  if  I can  get  any  pupils,”  said  she,  rather  sadly, 
thinking  how  much  the  shortness  of  her  stay  at  the  Vicar- 
age would  be  against  her  chances  of  getting  another  en- 
gagement. “ Not  like  this,  though ! I shall  take  lodgings 
in  London  and  try  to  get  daily  pupils,  for  music,  perhaps. 
Then  I shall  have  more  time  to  myself,  and  I can  study 
better.” 

“ But  you  know  enough  already;  and  you  will  be  fright- 
fully dull  if  you  live  by  yourself.” 

“ Not  so  dull  as  I am  here.  And,  when  I have  got  on 
with  music  and  other  things,  I shall  take  another  resident 


30 


"A  VAGRANT  WIFE \ 


engagement— abroad  this  time.  I think  I should  like  to 
go  to  Russia  or  Canada.” 

“Have  you  many  friends  in  London?” 

“No.  I had  some  once,  before  papa  died.  But  one  falls 
out  of  the  way  of  one’s  friends  somehow  when  one  gets 
very  poor.  It  isn’t  their  fault,  and  it  doesn’t  seem  to  be 
one’s  own;  but  it  always  happens.” 

“I  want  you  to  promise  me  something,”  said  George, 
in  a low  voice. 

She  looked  up  inquiringly. 

“I  want  you  to  promise  to  give  me  your  address  in  Lon- 
don if  you  settle  there  by  yourself.” 

Miss  Lane  hesitated.  She  was  very  much  touched  by 
his  sympathy,  very  anxious  not  to  lose  it  by  offending  him ; 
but  she  did  not  think  his  request  was  one  which  she  could 
or  ought  to  grant.  Independence  had  made  her  careful. 

“ I have  not  the  least  idea  where  I shall  be,  or  if  I shall 
be  able  to  carry  out  my  plan  at  all,”  said  she,  evasively. 

“ Where  there  is  a will  there  is  a way,  you  know;  and 
I should  think  that  is  more  the  case  with  you  than  with 
most  people.” 

“You  are  laughing  at  me.  You  think  me  too  strong- 
minded.” 

“ I will  tell  you  what  I think  of  you  when  you  have  an- 
swered me.  Now  will  you  promise?” 

“I  don’t  see  of  what  use  knowing  my  address  would  be 
to  you,  because  as  I shall  be  living  quite  alone,  I can’t  ever 
see  any  one.” 

“That  doesn’t  follow.  Do  you  mean  that  you  would 
live  the  life  of  a hermit,  and  condemn  yourself  to  solitary 
confinement  of  your  own  free  will?” 

“ For  a time.  There  is  no  help  for  it.” 

“Yes,  there  is.  We  are  going  up  to  town,  some  of  us, 
before  long.  I will  ask  my  mother  and  Lilian  to  call  on 
you.  But  I must  know  your  address.  And  I could  send 
you  tickets  for  concerts  and  things,  where  you  could  go 
with  your  pupils,  if  you  wouldn’t  let  any  one  accompany 
you  who  would  enjoy  it  more.  Would  you  let  me  take 
you  to  a concert?”  he  said,  bending  lower. 

Miss  Lane  looked  nervously  down,  then  entreatingly  up. 
“ I couldn’t,”  she  said,  in  a low  voice. 

He  saw  the  pleading  reluctance  in  her  eyes,  and  pressed 
his  advantage. 

“ You  do  not  know  how  unhappy  it  makes  me  to  think 
of  your  sacrificing  your  bright  life  alone  in  a dingy  Lon- 
don lodging.  However  nice  your  pupils  and  their  friends 
may  be  to  you,  their  affection  or — or  esteem — can  never  be 
$o  strong  as  that  of  your  own  disinterested  friends.” 

He  knew  hovf  to  throw  into  these  words  a feeling  and 


A Vagrant  wife.  ai 

warmth  which  made  the  girl’s  cheeks  flush.  There  was  a 
pause. 

“You  do  believe  in  my  friendship,  do  you  not?’  ’ he  asked, 
more  softly  still. 

•“  Of  course  I do,”  answered  the  girl,  looking  up  with  an 
effort.  “I — I-am  sure  you  mean  to  be  very  kind,  Mr. 
Braith  waite.  ” 

“ Then  don’t  be  too  unkind  to  me.  Promise  me  that 
you  will  send  me  your  address  in  town.” 

“ I cannot,”  said  the  girl;  then,  glancing  round,  she  saw 
fixed  upon  her  glassily  the  light,  colorless  eyes  of  her  eld- 
est pupil  Joan. 

Defiant  bitterness  and  a dozen  kindred  feelings  woke  up 
within  the  little  governess. 

“I  promise/’  said  she;  and  she  let  him  take  her  hand 
and  press  it  gently  in  his* 

He  turned  and  saw  Joan— saw  the  malignant  look  in  her 
eyes,  and  knew  that  she  had  been  watching  them.  Noth- 
ing could  have  pleased  him  better. 

“Ah,  Miss  Mainwaring,  have  you  too  been  listening  to 
Lord  Ben  Nevis’  speech?  Not  a bad  speaker,  though  he 
gets  rather  in  a tangle  with  ’ is  quotations  sometimes.” 

Joan  would  have  liked  to  say  something  satirical,  but 
nothing  occurred  to  her.  She  had  even  to  swallow  her  im 
dignation  so  far  as  to  talk  quite  amicably  to  this  deceitful 
Lovelace,  and  to  persuade  herself  into  thinking  that, 
though  he  might  amuse  himself  for  a few  odd  moments 
with  that  little  Miss  Lane,  he  found  a taller,  slimmer,  less 
talky  woman  more  permanently  attractive.  Still  he  had 
certainly  been  looking  at  Miss  Lane,  as  he  bent  over  her, 
where  she  sat  in  a corner  of  the  tent,  in  an  irritatingly 
admiring  manner. 

The  truth  was,  though  he  scarcely  acknowledged  it  to 
himself,  that  he  was  really  a little  in  love  with  Miss  Lane. 
She  was  not  only  sweetly  pretty,  but  “good  style,”  the 
best-dressed  woman  there,  in  his  opinion,  not  even  except- 
ing his  sister.  And  he  had  no  intention  of  losing  sight  of 
her.  And  why  should  he?  She  was  already  predisposed 
in  his  favor;  she  had  few  friends — none  who  could  warn 
her  that  he  was  a dangerous  acquaintance ; she  was  going 
to  live  alone  a dull  life  which  would  make  her  hail  with 
gratitude  any  companionship  as  pleasant  as  he  felt  his  to 
be  to  her;  he  would  have  many  a dull  and  idle  hour  in 
town  which  might  be  pleasantly  filled  up  by  the  charitable 
act  of  taking  the  pretty,  prim  little  lady  to  a theater,  or  he 
would  not  even  mind  a picture-gallery,  if  she  proved  en- 
tertaining enough  to  reward  him  for  such  waste  of  his 
time.  It  would  be  pleasant  for  her,  pleasant  for  him ; and, 
as  she  had  no  friends,  it  could  do  her  no  harm  in  the  eyes 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


of  the  world  which  ignored  her.  He  left  the  ground,  sat- 
isfied that  he  had  put  this  matter  well  in  train. 

She,  meanwhile,  in  spite  of  one  more  degree  of  frost  in 
the  manner  of  her  companions,  went  back  to  the  Vicarage 
with  them,  feeling  happier  than  she  had  felt  for  a long 
time.  The  kindly  sympathy  of  this  man,  whose  handsome 
face  grew  so  soft  when  he  spoke  to  her,  and  who  had  been 
her  favorite  among  the  Braithwaite  brothers  from  the 
first,  had  taken  her  out  of  the  shell  of  reserve  she  wore 
among  the  torpid  natures  around  her.  As  she  thought 
over  the  event  of  the  day  to  her,  that  low-spoken  conver- 
sation in  the  corner  of  the  tent;  recalled  again  each  tone, 
each  look  of  his ; felt  again  in  fancy  the  warm  pressure  of 
his  hand,  the  question  would  rise  in  her  mind,  “Does  he 
love  me?”  And  she  fell  asleep,  scarcely  daring  to  hope, 
yet  half  believing  that  he  did.  At  the  moment  when  he 
said  good-bye  he  had  contrived  to  ask  her  on  what  day  she 
was  going  back  to  London,  and,  almost  without  thinking 
what  she  was  doing,  she  had  told  him.  Would  he  be  there 
to  see  her  off,  she  wondered. 

But  the  little  fantastic  dream  she  was  indulging  was  not 
to  last  long.  Joan  was  the  person  to  destroy  it.  Within 
a few  days  of  Miss  Lane’s  departure  she  asked  her  mother 
at  tea-time  if  she  had  heard  that  George  Braithwaite  was 
going  to  be  married. 

“Dear  me,  no !”  said  Mrs.  Mainwaring.  “ Who  told  you 
about  it,  Joan?” 

“I  heard  it  at  the  Lawsons’.  It  is  to  some  cotton- 
lady,  it  appears,  with  large  feet  and  a large  fortune.  I 
wonder  how  they  will  get  on  together;  they  say  he  never 
admires  any  woman  of  his  own  rank.  But,  then,  I sup- 
pose he  doesn’t  consider  a cotton- lady  to  be  of  his  own 
rank ; or  perhaps  he  thinks  more  of  her  fortune  than  her 
face.  I suppose  that  is  necessary,  with  such  a character 
for  being  dissipated  as  he  has.”  • 

Mrs.  Mainwaring  gave  a warning  glance  from  her  eldest 
daughter  to  her  husband.  But  the  vicar  did  not  mind 
a little  bit  of  mild  scandal— it  amused  him ; and  the  rep- 
utation of  the  Braithwaite  boys  could  hardly  be  injured  by 
anything  Joan  might  say.  So  she  went  on  with  all  she 
had  heard,  and  her  own  comments  thereon,  every  word  in- 
flicting a wound,  as,  perhaps,  she  meant  it  to  do  upon  one 
of  her  hearers. 

Annie  Lane  walked  back  to  her  cottage  that  night  with 
heart  too  sore  for  study.  So  he  had  been  only  amusing 
himself  with  her,  after  all,  as  she  might  have  known  he 
was  doing ! She  should  have  known  better  than  to  trust 
another  Braithwaite  after  Harry’s  conduct  toward  her. 
She  felt  utterly  humiliated  and  fierce  with  indignation 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


88 

against  them.  She  had  been  the  plaything  of  both,  and 
the  girlish  pleasure  she  had  felt  in  their  admiration  and 
attention  had  been  dearly  paid  for. 

She  had  one  small  revenge  upon  George.  On  Sunday, 
the  day  before  her  departure,  he  went  to  church  and 
found  an  opportunity  to  whisper  to  her  as  they  came  out: 

“ I am  going  to  see  you  off  to-morrow.  I shall  be  at  the 
station.” 

All  the  girl’s  proud  spirit  flashed  from  her  dark  eyes  as 
she  raised  her  little  head,  and  looking  full  into  his  face, 
said  distinctly : 

“ I must  beg  that  you  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind.” 

He  was  amazed,  but  was  clever  enough  to  suppress 
everything  but  one  quick  glance  of  annoyance  and  sur- 
prise. Then  he  merely  elevated  his  eyebrows,  raised  his 
hat,  and  with  a careless  “As  you  please,”  went  on  to 
Joan  Main  waring. 

The  next  day  Miss  Lane  took  a cold  farewell  of  the  fam- 
ily in  which  she  had  worked  so  hard,  and  was  allowed  to 
go  by  herself  in  a cab  to  Beckham  Station.  She  had  been 
able  to  remain  calm  in  the  face  of  them  all ; but  before  the 
two-mile  drive  was  over,  she  was  half -blind  with  tears. 
To  be  dismissed  so  coldly  when  she  had  tried  so  hard  to 
do  her  duty  well  and  to  please  them!  To  be  dismissed, 
too,  with  an  undeserved  stain  upon  her  character!  It 
was  too  hard,  too  cruel,  that  at  the  outset  of  her  life,  when 
her  very  livelihood  depended  upon  her  own  efforts,  she 
should  find  herself  clogged  by  this  most  unjust  burden. 

She  was  drying  her  eyes  and  trying  to  look  as  if  she  had 
not  been  crying  as  the  cab  reached  the  town,  when  a 
young  man  on  horseback,  who  was  riding  in  the  opposite 
direction,  passed,  caught  sight  of  her,  and  turning  his 
horse’s  head,  followed  the  cab  into  the  station.  She  was 
late,  and  the  ticket-office  was  already  open.  She  had  just 
taken  her  ticket,  and  was  walking  away,  with  her  eyes 
upon  the  purse  in  her  hand,  when  a voice  by  her  side  made 
her  look  up  with  a start.  It  was  Harry’s. 

He  was  all  mud-splashed  with  hard  riding,  his  face  was 
red  and  ashamed,  and  his  voice  was  low  and  unsteady. 

“ Miss  Lane,  let  me  see  after  your  luggage.  Do— do  let 
me,  or— or  I shall  never  forgive  myself!” 

She  pointed  it  out  to  him  very  quietly,  without  a word 
except  “ Thank  you.” 

He  saw  it  put  into  the  van,  found  a corner-seat  for  her  in 
an  empty  second-class  carriage,  helped  her  in,  and  stood  by 
the  door  nervously  twisting  the  heavy  handle. 

“When  are  the  holidays  over,  Miss  Lane?  When  are 
you  coming  back?” 

“ I am  not  coming  back  here.” 


34 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


She  turned  away  her  head ; the  tears  were  breaking  forth 
again. 

“ Not  coming  back  ! Why?”  he  cried,  quickly. 

Her  tears  were  flowing  fast  now.  She  looked  at  him 
with  one  swift  glance  of  misery  and  reproach,  and  whis- 
pered brokenly: 

“ You  ought  to  know  why.  Betty— Betty  saw  you!” 

Harry  sprung  up  on  the  step. 

“ What— that  day  when  I — when  I behaved  like — like  a 
cad?  And  you  are  going  away  because  of  me?” 

The  hasty,  passionate  nature  of  the  lad  was  moved  to  a 
mighty  impulse  of  remorse.  She  could  only  answer,  pity- 
ing him  and  holding  out  her  hand  while  she  tried  to  smile 
through  her  tears : 

“Nevermind — nevermind!  I have  forgiven  you  long 
ago.  I — I— I only  told  you  because  you  asked.” 

He  had  seized  her  offered  hand,  when  the  guard  came 
up  to  shut  the  door. 

“ Going,  sir?” 

“ Yes!”  cried  Harry,  carried  away  by  the  impulse  of  the 
moment. 

He  jumped  into  the  carriage,  the  door  was  locked,  the 
train  was  in  motion,  and  he  and  Miss  Lane  had  started  to* 
gether  for  London. 


CHAPTER  V. 

That  night  there  was  consternation  at  the  Grange— 
Harry  had  not  returned.  His  horse,  which  he  had  left  in 
charge  of  a man  he  knew  at  the  station,  was  brought 
back  late  in  the  day  to  Garstone,  with  the  intelligence 
that  his  master  had  gone  by  the  London  train.  The  man 
said  he  thought  it  must  have  been  a sudden  determination 
of  Mr.  Braithwaite’s,  who  had  only  said,  when  he  left  the 
horse  in  his  care : 

“ I shall  be  back  in  five  minutes,  Tom.  He’ll  keep  quiet 
enough;  he  doesn’t  mind  the  trains.” 

Such  a freak  was  not  at  all  an  unheard-of  thing  among 
the  Braith waites,  and  little  more  was  thought  of  it  after 
Sir  George’s  return  home  that  evening,  for  he  looked 
upon  it  as  an  escapade  which  would  end  in  the  truant’s  re- 
turn the  next  day  with  an  empty  pocket  and  the  appear- 
ance of  having  been  up  all  night. 

But,  when  a week  passed,  and  still  no  tidings  were  heard 
of  him,  and  when,  moreover,  it  came  to  be  known  that 
the  late  governess  of  the  Mainwarings  had  left  Beckham 
by  the  same  train,  and,  as  appeared  later,  in  the  same 
carriage,  then  the  people  of  the  village  and  the  people  in 
the  town  began  to  chatter,  George  to  swear,  and  the  Vicar 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


35 


of  Gar  stone  to  look  very  grave.  Mrs.  Main  waring  wrote 
to  the  aunt  to  whose  house  Miss  Lane  had  said  she  was 
going,  and  received  in  answer  the  news  that  the  girl  had 
not  arrived,  but  had  written,  without  giving  her  address, 
to  say  she  was  in  lodgings  in  London.  And  Mrs.  Main- 
waring  repented  her  abrupt  harshness  most  bitterly,  and 
did  not  need  the  reproaches  of  her  husband,  who  blamed 
now  his  own  inaction  in  allowing  the  young  girl-gover- 
ness’ abrupt  dismissal.  Joan  and  Betty  ceased  their  snap- 
pish comments  on  her,  and  talked  together  in  whispers 
about  her.  And  at  the  Grange  they  wondered  how  Harry 
was  getting  on  without  any  money,  for  they  knew  he  had 
only  a small  sum  with  him  on  the  day  he  left  Beckham. 

Then  came  a letter  from  a friend  of  Sir  George’s,  saying 
that  Harry  had  been  seen  in  Paris,  where  he  seemed  to  be 
enjoying  himself  very  much.  And  then  an  event  hap- 
pened which,  for  the  time,  turned  all  thoughts  away  from 
the  truant  son. 

Sir  George,  who  passed  most  of  his  time  on  horseback, 
was  riding  home  one  afternoon  on  a horse  which  had  car- 
ried him  safely  through  many  a hard  day’s  hunting,  when, 
in  taking  a fence,  with  a ditch  on  the  further  side,  over 
which  they  had  gone  easily  time  after  time  together,  the 
horse  slipped  on  landing,  and  rolled  into  the  ditch  on  the 
top  of  his  rider.  Sir  George  tried  to  rise,  but  found  that 
he  was  too  much  hurt  to  do  so;  he  called  for  help,  but 
fainted  with  pain  before  any  came.  At  last  a man  who 
was  passing  with  a cart  saw  him,  and  brought  others  to 
the  spot  by  his  shouts.  They  carried  him  home  to  the 
Grange,  the  doctor  was  ridden  for  with  all  speed,  and,  be- 
fore night  came,  all  Garstone  knew  that  the  baronet’s  life 
was  in  danger.  Day  after  day  he  lingered  on,  though  the 
hope  of  his  recovery  grew  slender;  hour  after  hour  he  lay 
conscious,  but  silent  to  all.  The  only  person  he  asked  for 
was  the  missing  Harry.  Every  morning  he  asked  the 
same  questions. 

“ Has  Harry  come  back?  Has  any  one  heard  from 
him?” 

And  every  morning  the  reply  was  the  same.  There 
were  no  tidings  of  him. 

At  last  one  evening  George  entered  his  father’s  room 
with  a face  dark  with  ill  news.  Sir  George  knew  that 
something  had  happened  which  his  son  scarcely  dared  to 
tell  him.  His  eyes  brightened  with  stern  eagerness. 

“ Well,  speak  out.  You  have  heard  news  of  Harry— bad 
news?” 

“Yes,  bad  news.” 

4 ‘ Is  he  dead?” 

“ No.” 


36 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


“ Worse?** 

44 1 — I think  so;  I am  afraid  so.” 

“ Go  on.  I am  not  afraid  to  hear.” 

44 1 have  just  received  a letter  from  Stanmer  & Lloyd.” 

44  Ah  ” — the  sick  man  drew  a sharp  breath — 44  the  bank- 
ers! Well?” 

44  They  wrote  about  a check  which ” 

“Was  forged?” 

44  They  think  so.  It  was  in  your  name,  and  for  three 
hundred  pounds.” 

There  was  a long  silence.  When  Sir  George  spoke  again, 
his  voice  was  changed. 

44  It  must  be  hushed  up.  And  you  must  find  out  the 
boy  and  bring  him  back  to  me.  If — if  I were  well,  it 
might  be  different;  but  I must  forgive  him  now.  You  will 
find  him  out,  George?” 

“Yes,  father.” 

Sir  George  lay  back  again  in  silence;  but  his  face  was 
still  very  stern;  there  was  remorse  for  his  own  conduct  as 
well  as  shame  for  his  ill-brought-up  sons  in  the  expression 
it  wore. 

George  went  up  to  town  the  next  day,  and  fulfilled  the 
first  part  of  his  father’s  commission,  that  relating  to  the 
check,  without  much  difficulty;  but  he  failed  to  find  a 
clew  to  his  brother’s  hiding-place,  if  he  were  in  hiding, 
which  George  doubted.  It  was  more  characteristic  of  the 
Braith waites  to  do  wrong  and  brave  the  consequences 
openly;  and  this  course,  while  apparently  favoring  detec- 
tion, often  proved  the  safest. 

Then  a suggestion  occurred  to  him  for  tracking  the  run- 
away. He  wrote  to  Mrs.  Main  waring  for  the  address  of 
Miss  Lane’s  aunt,  and,  on  the  day  he  received  it,  he 
knocked  in  the  afternoon  at  the  door  of  a very  small  semi- 
detached house  a few  miles  out  of  London.  The  door  had 
figured  glass  let  into  it  in  place  of  the  upper  panels,  and 
he  saw  a face  pressed  against  one  of  these  in  doubtful  con- 
templation of  him  some  minutes  after  his  second  ring. 
His  hand  was  on  the  bell  for  the  third  time,  when  the  door 
was  opened,  and  a little  servant  with  a very  small  and 
very  dirty  face  asked  what  he  wanted.  He  had  not  got 
further  than  to  ask  doubtfully  if  Mrs.  Mansfield  lived 
there  when  she  turned  round  and  abruptly  left  him  stand- 
ing at  the  entrance  of  the  most  pretentious  “hall.”  for  its 
size,  that  he  had  ever  seen.  For  it  was  esthetically 
papered,  and  had  an  inappropriate  dado,  while  a pair  of 
ugly  China  monsters  left  scarcely  room  for  the  stranger  to 
pass  between  them  and  the  umbrella-stand.  It  was  so 
small  that  he  could  distinctly  hear  the  conversation  which 
followed  in  the  backyard. 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


37 


“ It’s  a gentleman,  ma’am,  who  wants  to  see  you— such 
a nice  gentleman,  in  a great  long  coat !’  ’ 

“ Did  you  show  him  into  the  drawing-room?” 

“No,  ma’am.” 

“ Show  him  in  at  once,  and  then  you  hang  up  the  rest  of 
the  stockings.  Say  I will  be  with  him  in  a minute,  and 
take  the  pin  out  of  my  gown  behind.”  Then,  in  a severe 
tone,  “You  dirty  little  thing,  you  are  not  fit  to  speak  to  a 
visitor!”  And  indeed  this  domestic  did  not  harmonize 
well  with  the  dado. 

The  small  servant  showed  Georg  e into  a tiny  room,  the 
furniture  and  arrangement  of  which  told  more  of  its 
owner’s  history  than  the  hall  had  done.  For  it  was  a 
room  which  belonged  to  an  anterior  period  of  civilization. 
The  carpet  was  of  the  aggressive  kind,  with  old-fashioned 
impossibly -colored  roses.  There  was  an  inlaid  round  table, 

much  too  big  for  the  room,  jutting  a long  way  out  of  one 
corner;  the  piano  was  worn  and  old-fashioned,  the  chairs 
were  evidently  relics  of  two  or  three  different  suits  of  fur- 
niture. The  books  were  suggestive  too — the  “ Pilgrim’s 
Progress,”  with  much  gilt  on  the  binding,  odd  numbers  of 
the  Sunday  at  Home , and  the  current  number  of  the  Quiver , 
two  or  three  Keepsakes , some  little-used  volumes  of  miscel- 
laneous poetry,  which  looked  like  school-prizes,  et  cetera. 
But  the  ornaments  spoke  more  plainly  than  anything  in 
the  room  -large,  blue  -glass  vases  on  the  mantel-piece, 
crochet  antimacassars,  each  of  a different  pattern,  over 
the  chairs;  and  every  ornament  stood  on  a wool  mat. 

He  had  to  wait  some  time;  he  heard  Mrs.  Mansfield 
go  softly  past  the  door  and  up  the  stairs,  and  the  small 
servant  follow  her  with  hot  water,  as  he  could  tell  by  her 
spilling  it  as  she  went  along.  Presently  the  door  opened, 
and  a woman  of  about  forty,  dressed  in  rusty  black,  much 
covered  by  trimmings  which  enhanced  the  shabbiness  they 
were  meant  to  hide,  came  in  and  apologized  more  than  was 
necessary. 

He  stated  the  object  of  his  visit  as  soon  as  he  could.  He 
had  come  on  behalf  of  his  mother  and  some  other  friends 
of  Miss  Lane,  to  find  out  her  address. 

“I  could  not  have  given  it  you  myself  before  this 
morning,”  said  Mrs.  Mansfield.  “ She  has  written  twice 
to  me  since  she  left  Garstone;  but  it  was  only  in  the  let- 
ter I received  to-day  from  her  that  she  put  any  address. 
She  is  lodging  in  London  by  herself,  and  trying  to  get  daily 
pupils.” 

“ Are  you  going  to  see  her?”  asked  George. 

“No,  I have  no  time;  she  knows  that  herself,  and 
doesn’t  expect  me,” 


38 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


“ Do  you  approve  of  her  plan  of  living  by  herself?  It 
seems  a strange  one  for  such  a young  girl.” 

“Indeed  Annie  doesn’t  trouble  herself  about  my  ap- 
proval. I can’t  say  I think  it  a proper  thing  for  a girl  to 
do  who  has  been  brought  up  like  Annie;  but  she  is  so  ob- 
stinate-just like  her  mother,  my  poor  sister.” 

“ It  is  a great  pity  that  she  does  not  consult  you  more,” 
said  George  deferentially.  “ Having  no  mother,  she  ought 
certainly  to  defer  to  you  as  her  representative.” 

“That  is  just  what  Isay!”  cried  Mrs.  Mansfield,  grow- 
ing confidential.  “ I have  begged  her  to  come  and  live 
here;  the  house  is  certainly  smaller  than  she  is  used  to, 
but  still  it’s  a home,  and  she  would  be  more  comfortable, 
or  she  ought  to  be  ” — this  with  some  asperity— “ among 
her  own  relations.” 

“Certainly,”  said  George,  with  conviction.  He  had  just 
caught  the  sound  of  children  quarreling  and  screaming 
up-stairs,  and  his  thoughts  hardly  went  with  his  words. 

“She  might  go  backward  and  forward  to  town  for  her 
music-lessons  from  here  quite  easily;  and  why  should  she 
not  get  daily  pupils  about  here  as  well  as  in  town,  if  she 
has  made  up  her  mind  to  that?  Then  she  would  have 
the  comforts  of  a home  to  come  to  in  the  evening,  and 
she  might  amuse  herself  in  her  spare  time  by  helping  me 
to  teach  my  own  children.  ” 

“ It  wouid  be  a delightful  arrangement,”  said  George, 
with  fervor;  then,  growing  bold — “And,  as  she  is  a nice, 
lady- like  girl,  I have  no  d oubt  she  would  soon  find  a hus- 
band among  her  own  friends.  ” 

Mrs.  Mansfield  shook  her  head,  with  her  lips  drawn 
tightly  together. 

“I  am  sorry  to  say,  Mr.  Braith waite,  that  Annie  con- 
siders herself  too  good  for  my  friends.  I don’t  wish  to  say 
anything  against  one  of  my  own  blood ; but  I must  say  I 
don’t  think  such  high-and -mighty  airs  becoming.  It  is  not 
as  if  she  was  living  now  as  she  did  when  her  father  was 
alive,  and  when  nothing  was  too  good  for  her.” 

“ Her  father  was  well  off,  I believe?” 

“ Oh,  yes;  and,  if  he  had  been  prudent,  instead  of  spend- 
ing heaps  of  money  upon  her  education,  he  would  have 
left  her  a little  to  live  upon!” 

“It  must  be  a hard  change  for  her,  though.  She  is  so 
young,  and  of  course  it  is  so  natural  to  spoil  a beautiful 
girl.” 

This  rather  rash  speech  caused  Mrs.  Mansfield  to  draw 
herself  up. 

“ Well,  I can’t  say  that  I see  her  beauty  myself!  I don’t 
say  she  is  a bad-looking  girl;  but  I don’t  think  her  face  is 
likely  tQ  do  much  for  her:  in  my  young  days  gentle;. 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


men  looked  for  something  more  than  a pretty  face  in  a 
wife,  though  to  be  sure  they  liked  a pair  of  fine  eyes  too!” 

George  gathered  from  her  manner  of  saying  this  that 
she  judged  her  own  vacant,  round,  bead  like  eyes  to  be 
handsome;  and  he  smiled  a compliment,  which  brought  a 
gratified  but  not  becoming  blush  to  her  particularly  plain 
face. 

Before  long  he  succeeded  in  getting  from  her  Miss  Lane’s 
address,  in  one  of  the  streets  off  Regent  Street;  and,  pon- 
dering this  choice  of  a rather  expensive  locality,  he  left 
Mrs.  Mansfield’s  domestic  paradise,  and  returned  to  town. 
At  his  hotel  he  found  the  following  telegram : 

“ Come  back  at  once.  Sir  George  much  worse.  Harry 
has  returned.” 

That  night  he  was  again  at  the  Grange— not  a minute 
too  soon.  They  told  him,  on  his  arrival,  that  his  father 
was  not  expected  to  live  till  morning,  and  he  went  straight 
up  to  the  sickroom.  Harry  was  there  on  his  knees  by  the 
bedside,  very  still  and  grave  and  unlike  himself.  Sir 

George  opened  his  eyes  as  his  eldest  son  came  in. 

“George,”  said  he,  with  difficulty,  “I  have  forgiven 
him.  Don’t  let  it  be  mentioned  again.  I cut  him  out  of 
my  will  a week  ago;  it  is  too  late  to  alter  it.  Promise  me 
to  provide  for  him.” 

“I  promise,”  said  George,  in  a low  voice. 

“ Call  the  rest.  It’s  near  now.” 

And  they  came  one  by  one  softly  into  the  room.  An  old 
hound,  a great  favorite  of  his,  slipped  in  too,  slunk  up  to 
the  bed,  and  wagged  his  tail  at  the  master  he  had  missed 
for  days. 

“ Hallo,  Diamond,  come  to  say  good-bye  to  me?” 

And  the  hound,  thus  encouraged,  licked  his  master’s 
hand. 

“ Have  you  forgotten  the  old  days,  Diamond?  They  are 
over  for  me  as  well  as  for  you  now,  my  old  beauty !”  Then, 
gathering  a remnant  of  strength,  he  gave  a ringing  “ View- 
halloo!” 

The  hound  bounded  away  in  great  excitement  among  the 
silent  figures  in  the  room,  then  came  back,  and  once  more 
licked  his  master’s  hand.  But  he  got  no  answering  caress, 
for  the  hand  was  still  forever. 

The  days  which  followed  between  Sir  George’s  death 
and  the  funeral  were  an  awkward  time  for  Harry  and  his 
eldest  brother.  The  younger  purposely  held  aloof,  and 
avoided  any  private  conversation  with  the  present  head  of 
the  family.  Only  once  did  George  catch  him  alone,  and 
instantly  took  advantage  of  the  opportunity. 

“Don’t  go,”  said  he,  laying  his  hand  on  the  arm  of  his 


40 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 

brother,  who  was  going  to  leave  the  stable  as  he  entered 
it.  “I  have  been  waiting  for  a chance  to  speak  to  you. 
Our  father  left  your  future  in  my  hands,  you  know,”  ho 
added,  in  a tone  which,  if  he  chose,  the  other  might  take 
as  a warning. 

“Well,  what  is  it?”  asked  Harry,  impatiently. 

“ Don’t  be  so  fidgety.  It  is  nothing  unpleasant.  I only 
want  to  know  if  you  can  tell  me  where  to  find  the  Main- 
warings’  late  governess,  Miss  Lane?” 

“ And  you  said  you  had  nothing  unpleasant  to  say!  I 
call  it  unpleasant — confoundedly  unpleasant — to  ask  me 
such  a question ! As  if  I had  anything  to  do  with  Miss 
Lane!  What  do  you  want  to  know  for?”  His  manner 
changed  from  sullen  to  fierce  with  this  question. 

“Your  manner  is  a little  inconsistent.  If  you  know 
nothing  about  her,  why  are  you  so  angry  when  I ask  you 
if  you  do?” 

“ I don’t  care  to  be  put  through  my  catechism.  You  ask 
more  questions  than  my  father  did.  ’ ’ 

“Then  he  spoke  to  you  about  this  matter?” 

“What  if  he  did?” 

“ And  you  told  him  the  truth?” 

“Yes,  the  truth.  I swear  it!  But  I am  not  bound  to 
answer  your  questions,  and  I won’t.  Take  your  hand  off 
my  arm  ; do  you  hear?” 

“Only  one  question.  When  you  have  answered  it,  I 
won’t  bother  you  again.  Do  you  know  where  Miss  Lane 
lives?” 

A light  suddenly  came  into  his  brother’s  eyes,  and  he 
answered  readily : 

“ I haven’t  the  least  idea  where  Miss  Lane  lives;  I swear 
it!” 

His  brother  took  his  hand  sharply  off  his  arm  and 
turned  away.  He  thought  it  was  a lie ; but  he  had  no 
means  of  extracting  the  truth.  He  was  more  interested  in 
Miss  Lane  than  the  younger  guessed,  more  anxious  for 
the  interview  he  was  about  to  seek  with  the  prim  little 
girl  than  he  had  ever  been  before  about  a meeting  with  a 
woman. 

He  had  to  keep  his  impatience  in  check  until  the 
funeral  was  over;  but  on  the  very  day  after,  the  young 
baronet  went  up  to  town  and  to  the  address  Mrs.  Mans- 
field had  given  him. 

“Is  Miss  Lane  at  home?”  he  asked  of  the  servant  who 
opened  the  door.  “ Ask  if  she  will  see  Sir  George  Braith- 
waite,”  he  added,  as  the  girl  did  not  answer. 

She  left  him  in  the  hall  while  she  went  up  stairs,  and 
then  returned  and  asked  him  to  walk  up.  And  in  the  sit- 
ting-room into  which  he  was  shown  sat  Miss  Lane— but 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


41 


not  the  downcast  little  creature  of  Garstone  Vicarage 
days — a little,  smiling  fairy  in  cream- colored  muslin,  with 
a rose  at  her  throat,  and  a small  hand  put  out  in  welcome. 
After  the  first  greetings,  her  glance  fell  on  his  deep  hat' 
band. 

“ My  father  is  dead,”  said  he. 

She  looked  grave  and  sorry  at  once,  but  not  so  much 
surprised  as  if  the  fact  of  his  illness  had  been  unknown 
to  her. 

“You  had  heard  of  his  accident?” 

“Yes,  I saw  it  in  the  papers,”  she  answered,  blushing, 
and  not  looking  at  him. 

He  looked  at  her  searchingly.  Who  could  have  told  her 
all  about  it  but  Harry? 

“Were  they  all  there  when  he  died?”  she  asked, 
softly. 

“All  the  family  were  there — yes.  Didn’t  you  know?” 

“How  could  I know,  Sir  George?  I have  not  kept  up 
correspondence  with  the  Mainwarings.  They  do  not  care 
enough  about  me.” 

“ But  you  left  others  behind  you  at  Garstone  who  did,” 
said  he,  more  hurriedly  than  he  generally  spoke  such 
speeches,  for  his  heart  was  beating  faster. 

He  had  never  yet  looked  on  a woman  who  so  completely 
fulfilled  his  ideal  of  a beautiful  and  graceful  lady.  A pas- 
sionate wish  sprung  up  in  him  that  he  might  be  mistaken 
in  spite  of  all,  and  that  his  brother  might  have  no  interest 
for  her.  He  glanced  at  her  hands;  they  were  ringless. 
He  would  fain  have  convinced  himself  that  the  very 
glance  of  her  steadfast  brown  eyes  proved  her  to  be  in- 
nocent of  any  evil.  Yet  these  rooms,  this  dainty  dress, 
did  not  proclaim  the  struggling  governess  out  of  work. 
For  the  first  time  it  flashed  across  his  mind,  as  he  looked 
at  her,  that,  if  only  she  could  convince  him  that  she  was 
as  free  and  as  pure  as  he  would  fain  believe,  he,  Sir  George 
Braithwaite  of  Garston  Grange,  would  be  ready  to  marry 
the  little  governess  out  of  employment. 

She  had  noticed  his  compliment  only  by  a short,  sharp 
breath,  and  asked  after  the  vicar’s  family  to  divert  the 
conversation. 

“I  am  sure  I shall  like  daily  teaching  much  better  than 
my  life  with  them,”  she  went  on  quickly. 

“ You  have  some  pupils  then?” 

“ Not  yet.  I — there  have  been  difficulties  in  the  way  of 
my  getting  any  before  now;  but  I hope  to  do  so  soon,”  she 
said,  hurriedly. 

“And  you  don’t  find  this  life  dull?”  said  Sir  George, 
his  jealousy  awake  again. 

“Oh,  no!” 


42 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


“ I suppose  your  friends  come  to  see  you  very  often?” 

“ No;  I don’t  have  many  visitors.” 

“Perhaps  they  don’t  know  where  you  are.  You  know 
you  promised  to  give  me  your  address;  but  you  never 
did.  You  left  me  to  find  it  out  as  best  I could  for  my- 
self.” 

“ It— it  is  very  kind  of  you  to  come,”  said  the  girl, 
flushing,  “How  did  you  find  me  out?”  she  asked,  anx- 
iously. 

“ I asked  Mrs.  Mainwaring  for  your  aunt’s  address,  and 
went  from  Garstone  to  her  house.” 

“ You  went  all  the  way  to  my  aunt’s!” 

“I  would  have  gone  to  the  world’s  end  to  find  you!” 
He  left  his  seat  and  stood  by  the  mantel  piece,  bending 
over  her.  “Didn’t  you  know  I loved  you?  You  were 
kind  to  me  that  day  at  the  flower  show.  You  promised 
me  your  address,  you  told  me  the  train  you  were  going 
by.”  She  was  trying  to  stop  him;  but  it  was  out  of  her 
power  now.  “Then,  when  I said  I would  see  you  off,  as 
your  own  words  had  given  me  the  right  to  do,  you  gave 
me  a cruel  snub.  And  then  you  let  Harry  see  you  off,  and 
— and  travel  up  to  town  with  you,  they  say.” 

She  had  risen,  and  was  confronting  him  with  bright, 
eager  eyes. 

“I  did  not  let  him — I did  not  expect  him.  He  came, 
and  I could  not  prevent  it.” 

“Is  that  true,  my  darling?”  cried  George,  passionately. 
She  was  standing,  with  upturned  face,  close  to  him.  He 
threw  his  arms  round  her. 

“Then  you  don’t  love  him!  You  have  nothing  to  do 
with  him  and  his  forgeries?” 

“ Forgeries?”  she  cried,  paralyzed  even  while  she  tried 
to  free  herself. 

As  they  stood,  he  with  one  arm  round  her,  she  still  with 
horror,  Harry  came  in.  He  sprung  upon  his  brother  and 
tore  the  trembling  girl  out  of  his  arms. 

“ Oh,  is  this  true?  Is  it  true?  You  heard  what  he  said !” 
she  cried,  with  a shudder. 

“ Is  it  a time  to  accuse  me  when  I find  you  in  another 
man’s  arms?”  he  cried,  fiercely. 

“ And  by  what  right  do  you  object  to  her  being  any- 
where she  pleases?” 

“ Pleases?” 

“Yes.  You  swore  to  me  two  days  ago  that  you  did  not 
know  where  Miss  Lane  lived.  It  was  a lie!” 

“ It  was  not  a lie.  There  is  no  such  person  as  Miss  Lane. 
This  is  Mrs.  Harry  Braith waite,  my  wife!” 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


4a 


CHAPTER  YI. 

When  Harry  uttered  the  words  “ My  wife!”  his  brother 
looked  from  one  to  the  other  for  a few  moments  without  a, 
word;  then*  in  a low,  sullen  voice,  he  said: 

“ You  have  tricked  me  and  deceived  me,  both  of  you. 
It  was  very  clever — very  clever  indeed,  but  hardly  wise.  I 
won’t  take  up  your  time  any  longer  now.”  Then,  turning 
to  Annie,  he  continued,  ”1  am  much  obliged  to  you  for 
your  kind  welcome.  I must  apologize  for  having  brought 
down  your  husband’s  anger  upon  you;  but,  you  see,  you 
left  me  rather  in  the  dark.”  Then  to  Harry — “You  will 
hear  from  me  in  a day  or  two.  Our  father  made  me 
promise  to  provide  for  you,  and  I have  a proposal  to 
make  which  I don’t  think  you  will  find  ungenerous.  Send 
me  an  answer  as  quickly  as  you  can.” 

He  shook  his  brother’s  hand  and  then  Annie’s  and  left 
the  room.  Harry  turned  to  his  wife,  looking  rather  anx- 
ious. 

“ He  is  going  to  do  something  nasty,  Annie— I am  sure 
of  it.  I know  George’s  manner  when  he  is  spiteful,  and 
our  chances  look  very  bad,  darling.  No  more  Paris,  no 
more  pretty  gowns,  for  the  present,  at  any  rate!” 

But  Annie  did  not  answer.  With  trembling  fingers  she 
was  pulling  to  pieces  the  flower  which  had  fallen  from  her 
throat. 

“Why,  Annie,  what  is  the  matter?  You  look  ill— you 
are  crying!” 

“ I am  not  ill,”  said  she,  repulsing  him.  “ I am  heart- 
sick, miserable.” 

“But  you  mustn’t  give  way  like  that,  my  darling. 
George  will  have  to  come  round.  He  sha’n’t  make  my 
wife  spoil  her  pretty  eyes.” 

“ It  is  not  George,”  she  said,  with  fire.  “Do  you  think 
I am  such  a coward  as  to  mind  not  having  pretty  dresses? 
What  was  that  he  said  about  forgery?” 

“ Oh,  nothing  to  make  such  a fuss  about !”  answered  the 
young  fellow  sulkily.  “I  was  hard  up,  I had  no  money 
for  our  wedding  trip,  and  I couldn’t  help  it.  It  wasn’t  as 
if  I committed  a crime,  and  copied  somebody  else’s  name, 
it  was  my  own  father’s.  I knew  it  would  be  all  right,  and 
:so  it  was.  He  hushed  it  up  directly,  and  said  hardly  any- 
thing about  it.” 

“You  call  that  nothing!”  said  Annie,  raising  her  eyes 
wide  with  horror  to  his  face. 

“Of  course  I know  it  was  wrong,”  replied  he  impa- 
tiently; “ but  there  was  nothing  else  to  be  done.  I could 


44 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


not  have  married  you  without,  or  you  would  have  had  to 
pass  your  honeymoon  in  an  attic.” 

“ I would  rather  have  passed  it  as  a tramp  on  the  high- 
road than  as  we  did,  if  I had  known.” 

“ Well,  you  are  an  ungrateful  little  cat.  When  I thought 
of  nothing  but  pleasing  you  and  buying  you  pretty  things 
from  morning  till  night.” 

“Pretty  things  that  were  bought  with  stolen  money !” 

“How  dare  you  say  such  thing  to  me?”  he  shouted. 
“Don’t  you  know  I’m  your  husband;  and  do  you  suppose 
I am  not  the  best  judge  of  my  own  conduct?  Do  you  sup- 
pose I should  ever  do  anything  a gentleman  need  be 
ashamed  of?” 

“I  think  you  have  done  a thing  a beggar  would  be 
ashamed  of.” 

“Thank  you,  thank  you ! You  call  me  a beggar  and  you 
call  me  a thief.  I shall  be  a murderer  next,  I suppose; 
and,  by  Jove,  it  would  serve  you  right  if  I were.  Haven’t 
I behaved  well  to  you?  Didn’t  I come  to  London  with  you 
just  to  stop  you  from  crying?  And  didn’t  I marry  you 
when  I knew  very  well  that  all  my  family  would  disap- 
prove of  it?” 

“Oh,  yes;  you  made  a noble  sacrifice.  I am  deeply 
grateful  to  you  for  throwing  yourself  away.  It  spoils  the 
look  of  it  a little,  though,  that  your  elder  brother  was  will- 
ing to  do  so,  too,  if  you  hadn’t  been  beforehand  with 
him.” 

“You  may  say  what  you  like;  but  it  is  a sacrifice  of  a 
man's  liberty  to  marry  at  twenty.  As  for  George,  I be- 
lieve you  like  him  better  than  me  all  the  time.  Answer 
me — do  you — did  you  ever  care  for  him?”  demanded  he 
roughly. 

“ I shall  not  answer  your  insulting  questions,”  said  the 
young  wife,  in  a very  calm  voice;  ana,  as  quickly  as  she 
could,  she  left  the  room.  For  she  felt  as  if  her  heart  were 
breaking;  this  sharp  wrangle  had  made  her  almost  hys- 
terical, and  she  did  not  want  to  break  down  before  the 
husband  whom,  for  the  time  at  least,  she  despised  and  all 
but  hated. 

Already  during  the  few  weeks  of  their  wedded  , life,  it 
had  needed  all  the  strength  of  his  outbursts  of  demon- 
strative affection,  all  the  bright  contentment  she  felt  at 
her  release  from  schoolroom  drudgery,  to  cloak  the  fact 
that  they  had  not  one  taste,  one  sympathy  in  common; 
that  their  tempers  were  ill  suited  to  each  other,  and  the 
moral  standard  of  the  wife  as  different  from  that  of  the 
husband  as  light  from  darkness.  This  crime,  which  Harry 
had  made  light  of,  tore  down  the  last  shred  of  illusion 
from  before  the  eyes  of  the  wife  of  eighteen.  She  had 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


45 


made  an  awful  mistake.  Carried  away  by  the  passionate 
pleading  of  a headstrong  boy  at  a time  when  she  felt  her- 
self to  be  utterly  friendless,  and  when  his  impulsive  re- 
morse had  seemed  to  her  to  show  a high  and  generous 
nature,  she  had  bound  herself  by  a tie  which  would  last 
her  life  to  an  ignorant,  uncouth,  unprincipled  lad  who  did 
not  even  love  her.  For  already  the  sensitive  woman  felt 
that  his  caresses  were  growing  careless;  and  she.  knew 
that  no  husband  of  a few  weeks  could  have  used  the  words 
Harry  had  used  to-day  to  a woman  for  whom  he  cared 
deeply. 

Harry  had  gone  out;  and  for  three  long  hours  Annie 
knelt  on  the  floor  by  the  bed  pondering  what  she  should 
do  with  her  life,  and  praying  for  help  to  show  her  where 
her  duty  lay.  She  came  to  a resolution  strangely  wise  for 
so  young  a woman;  and,  when  her  husband  returned,  she 
was  as  nearly  her  usual  bright  s elf  as  she  could  manage  to 
be.  Harry,  of  course,  did  not  appreciate  the  struggle  she 
had  gone  through  before  she  could  do  this,  but  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  she  saw  how  silly  she  had  been  to 
make  such  a fuss  about  a trifle  which  did  not  concern  her, 
and  thought  it  was  time  for  him  to  show  a little  just  in- 
dignation at  finding  his  brother’s  arm  round  her. 

But  she  stopped  him  with  surprising  promptness,  as  if 
his  remarks  were  beneath  argument.  He  began  to  bluster 
a little. 

“Do  you  really  doubt  the  propriety  of  my  conduct?”  she 
asked,  coldly. 

“ Well,  it  is  not  a usual  thing,  is  it,  to  find  one’s  wife — 
er — er— like  that?” 

“ Is  it  a usual  thing  for  a wife  to  be  requested  by  her 
husband  to  conceal  the  fact  that  she  is  married,  especially 
from  his  relatives?” 

“ Why,  no,  of  course  not!  And  it  doesn’t  matter  now, 
you  see,  since  I told  my  father  all  about  it,”  said  Harry, 
trying  to  speak  more  good-humoredly,  since  he  saw  by 
the  steady  look  of  his  wife’s  eyes,  as  he  had  seen  before  in 
less  serious  discussions,  that,  if  the  argument  went  on  he 
would  get  very  much  the  worst  of  it. 

So  the  peace  was  kept  between  them,  though  the  warmth 
of  their  feelings  for  each  other  was  getting  rapidly  less. 
An  incident  happened  a few  days  later,  however,  which 
revived  it  for  a time.  George’s  promised  proposal  came, 
and  Harry  had  scarcely  read  it  before  lie  was  at  his  wife’s 
feet,  pressing  his  lips  to  her  very  dress  * \th  all  the  en- 
thusiasm of  a few  weeks  back. 

“ He  wants  us  to  go  to  the  Grange— not  for  my  sake, 
though;  but  to  get  you  there;  but  he  sha’n’t ! I’d  sweep  a 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


46 


crossing  rather  than  let  you  go  there!  My  generous 
brother — hang  him!” 

“ To  go  to  the  Grange!  To  live  there?” 

“Yes;  that  is  his  way  of  fulfilling  his  promise  to  our 
father.  He  says  there  are  too  many  burdens  on  the  estate 
for  him  to  make  me  a suitable  allowance,  unless  we  go 
and  live  there.  But  I wouldn’t  let  you  go  there  for  the 
world!” 

“But,  Harry,  I should  be  quite  safe  with  you.  You 
speak  of  your  brother  as  if  he  were  a savage. ’ ’ 

“So  he  is.  We  are  all  a set  of  savages;  and,  being  a 
savage  myself,  you  see,  I know  how  to  trust  the  rest.  I 
tell  you  you  shall  not  go;  and,  if  you  try  to  persuade  me, 
I shall  think  you  don’t  love  me.” 

He  flung  his  arm  round  her,  and  looked  up  into  her  face 
with  an  air  of  boyish  authority  which  she  did  not  attempt 
to  resist,  though  it  made  her  smile.  A.  few  months  of  self- 
dependence  had  made  her  so  much  older,  so  much  wiser 
than  this  spoiled  child  who  was  her  lord  and  master. 

She  knew  he  could  not  live  long  in  defiance  of  his  elder 
brother;  she  knew  he  had  no  money  of  his  own,  and  no 
capabilities  of  making  any,  or  that,  if  he  had  any  capabili- 
ties, he  had  no  intention  of  using  them.  He  had  indeed 
most  of  the  qualities  necessary  in  a groom  and  some  of 
those  wanted  by  a jockey;  but,  being  a gentleman,  though 
he  could  copy  their  manners  and  share  their  tastes,  he 
could  follow  their  occupations  only  as  an  amusement.  He 
had  given  her  money  so  recklessly  at  first  that  she,  though 
inclined  to  be  extravagant,  had,  with  out  saying  anything 
to  him  about  it,  put  some  by  in  case  of  an  emergency ; so 
that,  when  his  supplies  to  her  stopped  rather  suddenly, 
she  was  able  to  go  on  paying  their  weekly  bills  without 
running  into  debt.  But  this  could  not  last  long ; and  she 
began  to  look  out  for  some  music- pupils,  still  without  say- 
ing anything  to  her  husband,  whose  pride  would  have 
cried  out  at  the  idea  of  his  wife  working  for  her  living  and 
his. 

It  was  easy  enough  by  this  time  to  leave  some  hours  in 
the  day  unaccounted  for.  Harry  had  met  some  acquaint- 
ances in  town  and  picked  up  some  others,  and  spent  but 
little  of  his  time  with  his  wife,  who,  he  complained,  did 
not  take  as  much  trouble  t o amuse  him  as  at  first,  and 
who  could  always  amuse  herself  with  a book— a most  un 
accountable  taste  in  his  eyes,  so  that  she  could  publish  an 
advertisement,  answer  others,  go  for  the  few  replies  she 
got  to  a neighboring  stationer’s,  and  give  a lesson  three 
times  a week  in  Onslow  Square  without  exciting  his  sus- 
picions. 

She  knew  that  Lady  Braithwaite  and  her  daughter  wer$ 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


47 


now  in  town,  staying  with  a sister  of  the  former’s  at  Lan- 
caster Gate,  but,  as  she  would  have  thought  nothing  less 
likely  than  that  they  should  take  any  notice  of  her,  she 
stood  for  a moment  in  the  doorway  in  silent  astonishment 
when,  coming  into  her  sitting-room,  after  having  given  a 
music-lesson,  she  found  Lilian,  looking  superbly  hand- 
some in  her  deep  mourning,  walking  about  examining  the 
pictures  and  ornaments. 

“ I think  you  must  be  very  comfortable  here,”  said  she, 
coming  forward  and  kissing  her,  as  if  they  had  been  af- 
fectionate friends  of  long  standing. 

Lilian’s  manners  were  charming  when  she  chose,  and 
she  was  at  her  best  this  afternoon — always  queenly,  but 
smiling  and  willing  to  be  pleased  with  anything.  She 
drew  her  tiny  sister-in-law  on  to  the  sofa  and  sat  down 
beside  her.  Annie,  very  glad  of  this  visit,  yet  hardly 
daring  to  believe  that  Lilian  could  have  heard  of  her  mar- 
riage, scarcely  knew  what  to  say ; but  the  other  saved  her 
the  trouble  of  finding  a remark. 

“ I wish  we  lived  like  this.  These  rooms  are  neither  too 
large  nor  too  small,  while  Aunt  Constantia’s  big  rooms 
are  so  big  that  you  lose  your  way  in  them,  and  the  small 
ones  are  so  small  that,  if  the  door  opens  inside,  it  scrapes 
the  opposite  wall.  I am  supposed  to  be  still  a child,  and 
therefore  of  no  consequence;  so  I am  put  into  a nice  little 
cupboard,  so  compact  that  Jennings  has  to  open  the  door 
and  stand  in  the  corridor  to  brush  my  hair.” 

Annie  laughed  at  the  picture  of  self-willed,  spoiled  Miss 
Braith waite  as  a victim  to  neglect,  and  then  asked  after 
Lady  Braith  waite. 

“ Oh,  she  is  quite  well,  thank  you,  though  of  course  she 
hasn’t  got  over  poor  papa’s  death  yet!  You  heard  all 
about  it  from  Harry,  of  course?” 

“Yes,”  said  Annie,  wondering  at  the  easy  way  in  which 
her  proud  sister-in-law  thus  alluded  to  their  new  relation- 
ship. She  was  still  more  surprised  when  the  other  con- 
tinued : 

“It  seems  so  strange  to  think  of  Harry  as  a married 
man ! I suppose  he  will  think  I ought  not  to  box  his  ears 
any  longer  now;  but  you  will  let  me,  won’t  you?  I can’t 
keep  him  in  order  in  any  other  way ; but  I suppose  you 
can.” 

Annie  laughed — not  very  heartily. 

“I  haven’t  tried  that  plan,  certainly.  It  wouldn’t  do 
for  such  a little  woman  as  I am ; I think  I am  too  small 
for  him,”  she  added,  as  if  this  really  had  struck  her  sud- 
denly as  a grave  obj  ection. 

Lilian  burst  out  laughing. 

“ What  an  odd  little  creature  you  are ! I have  always 


48 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


heard  that  a little  woman  can  make  a big  man  as  submiss-/ 
ive  as  a dog,  and  rule  him  with  a rod  of  iron,  while  h4 
thinks  all  the  time  that  he  is  the  master.  I am  sure  you 
would  not  condescend  to  obey  Harry.” 

“Yes,  I do,”  said  the  young  wife,  seriously — “at  least) 
I do  the  things  he  tells  me  to  do;  but  he  doesn’t  tell  me  t<j> 
do  many  things.”  And  the  thought  flashed  through  her 
mind,  “ He  doesn’t  take  enough  interest  in  me  to  mind 
what  I do.” 

“And  you  don’t  ever  want  to  do  anything  he  doesn’t 
wish  you  to  do?1  ’ 

“ When  I do,  I do  it  without  telling  him  about  it.” 
Lilian  was  delighted  with  this  speech,  which  Annie 
rather  regretted  having  made. 

“ I am  glad  you  are  not  so  superhumanly  good  as  I was 
beginning  to  fear.  Don’t  you  find  him  very  dull  company? 
He  can  hardly  write  his  own  name,  he  can’t  spell  a bit, 
and  he  can  talk  about  nothing  but  horses  and  guns.” 
Annie  would  not  own  that  she  had  not  enough  of  her 
husband’s  company  to  mind  it. 

“I  don’t  want  him  to  read  when  he  is  with  me,  and  I 
haven’t  asked  him  to  spell  much.  And  I like  horses  my- 
self, though  I don’t  know  much  about  them.” 

“Well,  your  life  is  not  so  dull  as  mine,  at  any  rate,”  de- 
clared Lilian.  “You  are  a married  woman,  and  can  go 
where  you  like  and  with  wh^m  you  like;  I wish  I could,” 
she  added,  petulantly. 

“But  I have  nowhere  to  go  and  no  one  to  go  with  ex- 
cept, of  course,  Harry,”  Annie  added,  hastily. 

“You  have  got  over  the  silly  stage  of  newly-married 
life  very  soon,”  said  Lilian,  amused,  but  rather  surprised. 
“Now  I want  to  go  to  a hundred  places  I can’t  go  to. 
Aunt  Constantia  looks  down  at  my  black  gown  and  says, 
‘ Too  soon,  my  dear,  too  soon!’  And  she  and  mamma  both 
disapprove  of  all  the  persons  I like.  I never  was  so 
wretched  in  my  life- just  when  I am  in  mourning  too,  and 
want  cheering  dreadfully!” 

“ Well,  you  will  soon  be  able  to  go  out  more,  and  then 
you  will  certainly  leave  off  envying  my  quiet  life.” 

“Oh,  but  there  will  be  far  worse  trials  for  me  then! 
Now  that  we  are  in  mourning,  at  least  no  one  can  find 
fault  with  my  dress;  but,  when  we  begin  to  go  out  again 
— and  I am  to  be  presented  next  season— I shall  want 
money ; and  George  is  so  mean — he  says  he  is  so  poor,  but 
that  is  nonsense !— that  I know  he  will  open  his  eyes  and 
say  that  a hundred  a year  ought  to  buy  me  everything  I 
want,  and  the  same  day  he  will  send  a groom  up  to  Tat- 
tersall’s  to  buy  him  a couple  of  hunters,  and  wonder  at 
the  selfish  extravagance  of  women!  It  is  so  silly,  too;  for 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


49 


the  very  best  thing  he  can  do  is  to  get  me  well  married  as 
soon  as  possible;  and  who  will  see  me  if  I never  go  out,  and 
who  will  look  at  me  if  I am  dressed  4 with  tasteful  econ- 
omy?’ As  if  economy  was  ever  tasteful— as  if  I did  not  do 
my  dressmaker  credit,  too!  I assure  you  I look  quite  nice 
when  I am  well  dressed.” 

She  threw  back  her  graceful  head  and  smiled  at  Annie 
with  playful  insolence,  which  was  charming  in  such  a 
beautiful  girl;  and,  having  got,  for  a time,  to  the  end  of 
her  grievances,  she  gave  a plaintive  sigh,  and  then  laughed 
at  herself. 

“I  have  been  taking  the  privileges  of  a relative  in  bor- 
ing you  to  death;  but  really  my  wrongs  were  getting  too 
heavy  to  be  borne  in  silence.  It  is  very  good  of  you  to 
listen  without  yawning.” 

“Oh,  you  don’t  know  how  glad  I am  to  see  you  and 
listen  to  you ! I was  afraid  you  would  be  so  angry  about 
Harry’s  marrying  me.” 

“ I won’t  pretend  we  were  glad  to  hear  of  it;  but  every- 
thing else  was  swallowed  up  in  papa’s  death.  I don’t 
think  mamma  has  quite  forgiven  either  of  you  yet;  but 
she  will  come  round  in  time.  And,  you  see,  as  I told  her, 
if  Harry  hadn’t  married  you,  George  would  have  done 
so.” 

Annie  started,  and  the  color  rushed  to  her  face. 

“Oh,  you  need  not  look  surprised ! I am  sure  of  it.  He 
was  much  more  in  love  with  you  than  Harry  was;  and,  to 
tell  you  the  truth,  when  you  had  left  Garstone,  and  no- 
body could  tell  what  had  become  of  you,  I thought  George 
was  more  likely  than  Harry  to  know  where  you  were.” 

She  rattled  on  without  taking  much  notice  of  Annie’s 
continued  agitation.  After  a minute’s  pause  for  breath, 
she  added : 

“ And  I did  credit  to  your  being  a good  little  thing  and 
a clever  little  thing,  for  George  has  far  fewer  scruples  and 
far  less  sense  of  honor  than  even  Harry,  I can  tell  you. 
Harry  is  not  a bad  fellow  at  heart,  though  he  is  such  a 
lout;  there  is  no  other  word  for  him.  Will  you  forgive 
my  frankness?  I am  a pretty  good  judge  of  my  brothers, 
and  my*knowledge  may  be  useful  to  you.” 

She  rose  from  the  sofa  and  took  Annie’s  trembling  hand. 

“ I have  frightened  you,  worried  you.  You  won’t  let 
me  come  again.  But  you  will,  won’t  you?”  she  added,  in 
a coaxing  tone — “for  I am  so  dull.  May  I come  on  Thurs- 
day, the  day  after  to-morrow,  and  we  will  go  to  the 
Academy  together?  It  will  soon  close  now,  so  it  will  be  full 
of  country  bumpkins;  but  I will  brave  them,  if  you  will. 
Mamma  and  Aunt  Constantia  find  it  too  tiring  for  them. 
May  I come?” 


60 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


She  asked  quite  restlessly  and  anxiously;  and  Annie, 
surprised,  begged  her  to  come,  and  promised  to  be  ready 
at  whatever  time  she  pleased. 

When  Harry  returned  home,  and  his  wife  told  him  of 
his  sister’s  visit,  he  was  even  more  surprised  than  she  had 
been. 

“Well,  she  is  a queer  girl;  but  I think  this  beats  any 
freak  she  has  had  yet,’7  he  said.  “You  should  just  have 
heard  her  go  on  at  me — and  at  you— at  Garstone,  when  she 
first  heard  about  it— just  after  our  father’s  death  too.  I 
told  her  if  she  didn’t  hold  her  tongue,  I would  turn  her  out 
of  the  room.”  And  presently  he  broke  out  again,  “ I won- 
der what  she  is  up  to  now?” 

Without  suspecting  any  deep-laid  plot  under  Lilian’s 
friendliness,  as  her  husband  seemed  to  do,  Annie  was  more 
surprised  than  ever  when  Thursday  came  and  Miss  Braith* 
waite  drove  up  in  a hansom  very  punctually,  to  see  how 
excited  she  seemed  to  be  over  such  a simple  diversion  as  a 
visit  to  the  Academy  with  her  sister-in-law.  She  was 
looking  radiantly  lovely.  The  mourning,  which  did  not  at 
all  set  off  Annie’s  brunette  beauty,  was  the  most  perfect 
setting  possible  for  Lilian’s  bright,  fair  complexion  and 
chestnut-brown  hair.  She  was  in  good  spirits  too,  and  so 
anxious  to  start  that  she  gave  Annie  doubtful  help  in 
dressing  with  her  own  hands.  Then  they  got  into  the  han- 
som which  was  waiting  outside,  and  were  at  Burlington 
House  in  five  minutes. 

Lilian  did  not  care  a straw  about  pictures,  and  gave 
most  of  her  attention  to  the  curious  crowd  which  may  be 
seen  at  the  Academy  every  year  during  the  last  week  of 
the  season.  They  had  been  through  two  rooms,  and  were 
entering  a third,  when  a gentleman  came  up  to  them,  and 
the  color  deepened  on  Lilian’s  face.  He  was  a tall,  strik- 
ingly handsome  man,  of  slighter  build  than  the  Braith- 
waites,  and  much  better  carriage.  Lilian  introduced  him 
to  her  companion  as  “ Colonel  Richardson.” 

Then  they  all  went  on  together.  Miss  Braithwaite,  being 
in  a brilliant  mood,  did  all  the  talking;  and,  as  her  talk 
was  chiefly  addressed  to  the  new-comer,  Annie  gradually 
fell  behind  them  and  gave  her  attention  entirely  to  the 
pictures.  As  she  noticed  how  happy  Lilian  looked,  how 
evidently  she  was  taking  pains  to  please,  and  how  atten- 
tive Colonel  Richardson  was  to  her,  it  occurred  to  the  quiet 
little  woman  behind  that  this  meeting  was  not  accidental; 
she  was  not  surprised  at  their  pleasure  in  each  other’s  so- 
ciety, and  thought  to  herself  what  a handsome  pair  they 
would  make.  When  they  had  nearly  finished  their  inspec- 
tion of  the  pictures,  which  had  become  a very  transparent 
pretext  to  Annie’s  eyes,  they  turned  to  her,  and  Lilian 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


51 


dropped  out  of  the  conversation  to  allow  Colonel  Richard- 
son to  talk  to  her  companion.  He  could  talk  about  the 
pictures  very  well,  she  found,  though  he  had  ignored  them 
a good  deal  that  day;  and,  when  he  presently  asked  per- 
mission to  call  upon  her  and  lend  her  a book  with  valuable 
engravings  which  he  had  brought  from  Italy,  she  could 
not  easily  refuse.  , . , , 

So,  two  days  later,  he  called  and  brought  the  book;  and 
while  he  was  there  Lilian  came  in,  and  they  both  stayed 
to  tea.  Annie,  who  was  always  rather  overpowered  by 
the  brilliant  and  rather  exacting  Miss  Braitbwaite,  was  a 
sweet  and  gracious  little  hostess,  but  listened  more  than 
she  talked.  And  Colonel  Richardson  called  alter  that  very 
frequently.  It  generally  happened  that  Lilian  was  there; 
but  that  did  not  seem  surprising,  for  she  had  got  into  the 
habit  of  spending  a good  deal  of  time  with  the  gentle  little 
sister-in-law  who  made  such  an  amused  and  therefore 
amusing  listener  to  her  chatter.  Sometimes  Harry  was 
there ; and  the  influence  of  the  elder  man  Colonel  Rich- 
ardson was  between  thirty -five  and  forty  upon  the 
younger  soon  became  very  strong.  The  latter  worshiped 
his  new  friend,  and  would  follow  him  about  like  his 
shadow  when  he  could,  so  that  the  colonel  had  to  get  him 
a mount  or  a seat  on  a drag  to  get  rid  of  him. 

One  evening  Harry  came  home  from  visiting  his  aunt 
and  his  mother  with  “a  good  joke  ” to  tell  his  wife.  ^ 
“Aunt  Constantia  and  my  mother  have  found  a mare  s 
nest,”  said  he,  with  his  usual  elegance  of  speech.  “They 
have  discovered  that  the  colonel  is  a most  dangerous  man, 
that  he  comes  here  not  to  see  me,  who  can  talk  about 
horses  and  shooting  and  all  the  things  he  likes,  but  to 
make  love  to  you  and  Lilian!  Why,  he  never  speaks  to 
either  of  you  if  I’m  here!  He  has  too  much  sense  to  go 
dangling  after  any  woman.  I told  my  aunt  I could  kv ok 
after  my  wife,  and  Lilian  could  look  after  herself.  She  is 
not  the  girl  to  throw  herself  at  any  man’s  head. 

“ But  there  is  no  reason  why  she  should  not  accept  his 

attentions.”  , 

“No  reason!  What— is  his  wife  no  reason?  asked 
Harry,  sharply.  . . _ , . 

“ His  wife!  Is  he  married?”  cried  Annie,  in  a low,  fright- 
ened voice 

“ Of  course  he  is.  Been  married  for  the  last  ten  years !” 


CHAPTER  VII. 

The  announcement  that  Colonel  Richardson  was  married 
entirely  changed  the  aspect  in  which  his  attention  to  Lilian 
had  appeared.  Annie  understood  now  that  she  herself 


S2 


A VAGRANT  t VINE. 


had  been  used  to  cover  a friendship  which  the  girl’s  rela- 
tives disapproved  of,  and  the  young  wife’s  heart  beat  fast 
with  excitement  and  dread  of  the  scene  she  had  to  go 
through  when  she  next  heard  Lilian’s  footstep  outside  her 
sitting-room  door.  She  was  doubtful  how  to  open  the  sub- 
ject ; but  her  companion  soon  paved  the  way  by  asking  if 
the  colonel  had  brought  a book  from  Mudie’s. 

44  He  called;  but  I had  told  Lydia  to  say  I was  not  at 
home.” 

Lilian’s  face  instantly  wore  its  haughtiest  expression. 

“ You  sent  such  a message  as  that  to  Colonel  Richard- 
son?” 

44  Yes.” 

44  Why?”  Her  beautiful  gray  eyes  were  fixed  in  indig- 
nant astonishment  on  her  companion’s  face. 

4 1 1 have  decided  that  I cannot  receive  his  visits  any 
longer.” 

She  was  trembling.  Lilian  mistook  this  for  a sign  of 
fear. 

44  Do  you  not  consider  my  introduction  a sufficient  as- 
surance that  a gentleman  is  worthy  of  the  honor  of  your 
acquaintance?” 

“ Not  in  this  case,”  said  Annie,  looking  at  her  steadily. 

44  Explain  what  you  mean.” 

44  Certainly.  I have  the  strongest  reason  for  believing 
that  you  introduced  Colonel  Richardson  to  me  and  led  me 
to  think  he  was  unmarried,  because  your  friends,  who 
knew  more  about  him  than  I,  disapproved  of  the  ac- 
quaintance for  you.” 

Lilian  rose  quickly  from  her  seat,  and  seemed  to  be  at- 
tempting to  quell  the  smaller  woman  by  her  dignified  ap- 
pearance. 

44  You  have  insulted  me  grossly— shamefully ! I suppose 
I have  deserved  it  for  condescending  so  far  to  you  as  I 
have  done.” 

44  You  forget,”  Annie  said,  simply,  without  any  show  of 
either  timidity  or  arrogance.  “Two  months  ago  you 
might  have  talked  to  me  of  condescension,  for  I was  then 
only  Miss  Lane,  the  governess.  Now  I am  Mrs.  Harold 
Braithwaite,  your  brother’s  wife,  your  equal,  and  your 
superior — for  the  present — as  a married  woman.” 

44  My  equal — my  superior!” 

“Yes;  that  is  not  a matter  of  argument,  but  of  fact. 
You  cannot  suppose  for  a moment  that  I wish  to  presume 
upon  it.  You  made  the  first  advances  toward  friendship 
with  me,  when  I was  rather  lonely  here  and  grateful  for 
your  society  and  that  of  the  gentleman  you  introduced 
to  me.  Now  I know  your  friendship  was  offered  only 
that  I might  innocently  help  you  to  deceive  your  friends, 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 58 

and  I am  quite  as  ready  to  draw  back  as  you  can  be ’ and 
her  brown  eyes  met  the  brilliant  gray  ones  steadily. 

Lilian  was  defeated,  though  she  would  not  own  it. 

“ You  have  caught  up  the  grand  manner  very  quickly,” 
said  she,  patronizingly. 

Annie  smiled;  such  a sneer  could  not  hurt  her.  Lilian 
left  the  room  majestically ; and  it  was  only  then  that  the 
features  of  her  hostess  assumed  an  anxious  look.  Would 
this  headstrong  girl  give  up  her  dangerous  acquaintance 
simply  because  another  difficulty  had  been  put  in  the  way 
of  it?  It  was  not  likely.  She  had  known  quite  well  that 
Lilian,  looking  upon  her  only  as  a useful  acquaintance, 
not  as  an  ally,  would  not  listen  to  any  entreaties  or  re- 
monstrances from  her;  therefore  she  had  not  tried  any; 
but  she  almost  reproached  herself  now  for  not  having 
made  the  attempt. 

She  did  not  say  anything  to  her  husband  about  this  in- 
terview, as  that  would  have  entailed  the  confession  that 
she  had  refused  to  see  his  friend,  which  would  have  drawn 
down  a useless  fury  of  reproaches  upon  her  own  head. 

She  felt  rather  awkward  therefore  when  Harry,  after 
complaining  and  wondering  that  the  colonel  did  not  call, 
brought  him  home  in  triumph  to  dinner  one  evening, 
about  a week  after  the  scene  with  Lilian.  He  was  sharp- 
sighted  enough  to  notice  a slight  constraint  in  his  wife’s 
greeting  of  their  guest,  a slight  diffidence  in  that  of  the 
colonel.  While  Harry  dressed  for  dinner,  the  latter  came 
nearer  to  Annie  and  said,  in  a low  voice: 

“ I am  in  a difficult  position,  Mrs.  Braith waite.  I have 
had  the  misfortune  to  offend  you  in  some  way ; but,  when 
your  husband  invited  me  here  this  evening,  and  I hinted 
that  I was  afraid  you  would  not  care  to  receive  me,  he 
would  not  listen  to  my  objections,  and  insisted  upon  my 
coming.  ’ ’ 

“Prav  do  not  think  I wish  to  be  discourteous,”  said 
Annie,  tearful  of  being  ungracious  to  a guest— one,  too, 
whom  she  could  not  help  liking. 

“ I am  sure  you  do  not,  therefore  I know  I must  have  been 
guilty  of  some  most  unintentional  offense  to  be  punished 
with  the  severe  snub  I received  last  week.  May  I know 
what  I have  done?” 

He  was  gently  putting  her  in  the  wrong,  and  she  felt 
uncomfortable  and  inclined  to  be  remorseful.  It  was 
Lilian  who  had  introduced  him,  and  she  herself  had  wel- 
comed his  visits.  She  answered  deprecatingly : 

“You  have  done  nothing  to  offend  me;  it  was  on  ac- 
count of  Lilian.” 

The  words  might  have  been  dictated  by  a feeling  of 
jealousy,  but  the  tone  in  which  they  were  spoken  pre- 


54 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


eluded  that  idea.  Colonel  Richardson  did  not  pretend  to 
misunderstand  her. 

“I  see,”  he  said,  after  a short  pause.  “But  I think  I 
have  been  rather  hardly  dealt  with.  I am  forced  by  cir- 
cumstances to  remain  in  town  when  most  of  my  friends 
have  left  it,  and  my  wife,  who  is  an  invalid,  is  staying  at 
Bournemouth.  At  the  house  of  a common  friend  I make 
the  acquaintance  of  a charming  girl,  whose  relations,  being 
in  deep  mourning,  receive  few  visitors.  She,  finding  me 
rather  forlorn  and  friendless,  offers  to  introduce  me  to  her 
sister-in-law,  an  equally  charming  lady.  I accept  the  offer 
eagerly— trespass  perhaps  too  much  upon  the  kindness  of 
both  ladies  in  coming  whenever  I have  a chance  to  see 
them,  and  am  rightly  punished  when ” 

“Oh,  no,  no — forgive  me!”  cried  poor  Annie,  over- 
whelmed with  remorse  at  the  apparent  strength  of  the 
case  against  her.  “ I would  not  for  the  world  have  risked 
wounding  you  but  for  Lilian.  You  know  how  harsh  the 
world  is  to  such  a beautiful  young  girl,  and  the  pleasure 
we  both  took  in  your  society  has  been  already  miscon- 
strued in  her  case  and  has  alarmed  her  friends.  I have 
been  very  frank — perhaps  too  frank ; but  I think  it  was 
better,  was  it  not?”  she  added  pleadingly. 

Of  course  he  forgave  her  readily  enough ; and  Annie, 
who  felt  that  her  husband  would  not  be  above  listening  at 
the  keyhole,  if  he  thought  anything  interesting  was  going 
on  on  the  other  side  of  the  door,  hastened  to  drop  the  con- 
fidential tone  of  their  conversation. 

Lilian  being  now  offended  without  remedy,  there  was 
no  reason  to  put  any  further  check  upon  Colonel  Richard- 
son’s visits.  He  did  not  call  so  often  as  before;  but  Annie 
was  most  grateful  for  the  breaks  he  afforded  in  her  mo- 
notonous life. 

They  spent  most  of  hot  August  in  London,  for  the  most 
hopeless  of  reasons  that  they  could  not  afford  to  go  away. 
Harry  got  a little  money— she  did  not  know  how,  and  was 
afraid  to  ask ; but  even  he  saw  that  they  must  be  careful 
with  it.  However,  in  the  last  days  of  the  month  they  got 
an  invitation  to  go  for  a voyage  in  a yacht,  and  the  five 
weeks  they  spent  in  that  way  were  the  happiest  Annie  had 
ever  known. 

There  was  only  one  other  lady  on  board,  the  wife  of  the 
owner,  and  a much  older  woman,  so  Annie  was  a little 
queen  for  the  time  and  received  unlimited  attention  from 
every  man  but  her  husband,  who  showed  however  to’ 
greater  advantage  in  her  eyes  than  he  had  ever  done  be- 
fore, for  he  knew  how  to  manage  a yacht  as  well  as  he 
knew  how  to  manage  a horse,  and  was,  in  fact,  the  best 
sailor  on  board. 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


58 


By  the  first  of  October  they  were  again  in  London.  Harry 
more  sulky,  his  wife  more  reserved  than  ever.  This  could 
not  last  long. 

One  morning  at  breakfast  he  threw  a letter  in  a shame- 
faced sort  of  way  across  to  his  wife.  It  was  from  George, 
and  contained  a renewal  of  his  offer  to  receive  them  at  the 
Grange.  The  poor  little  wife  had  reason  to  dread  this 
arrangement  now,  for  Lady  Braithwaite  and  Lilian,  both 
of  whom  disliked  her,  the  one  for  receiving  Colonel 
Richardson  and  the  other  for  dismissing  him,  were  at 
the  old  home  at  Garstone.  She  read  the  letter  and  gave 
it  back. 

“Are  you  going  to  accept?”  she  asked  simply. 

“Well,  I don’t  see  what  else  there  is  to  be  done,”  he 
answered,  without  looking  at  her.  “ It  is  only  fair  that 
he  should  help  us,  and  perhaps  it  is  true  that  he  can’t 
spare  enough  just  now  to  give  me  my  due  and  let  me  go. 
We  might  go  there  for  a month  and  try  it.  There  would 
be  some  shooting  now  and  some  hunting  later  on,  at  any 
rate.  And  you  would  be  more  comfortable  with  Lil  and 
mother  than  here  by  yourself,  I’m  sure.” 

Annie  did  not  try  to  undeceive  him  on  that  point.  She 
saw,  by  the  eagerness  with  which  he  alluded  to  the  coun- 
try pleasures  he  was  going  back  to,  that  nothing  she  could 
say  would  alter  his  determination  to  accept  his  brother’s 
offer.  She  had  known  it  must  come  to  this,  so  she  heard 
his  decision  quietly,  and  prepared  with  a heavy  heart  to 
go  back  to  Garstone,  a place  full  of  bitter  memories  to 
her,  for  it  was  there  she  had  been  dismissed  without  a 
kind  word  by  the  cold  Mainwarings,  and  it  was  there  she 
had  met  her  husband,  who  was,  she  felt  already,  to  be  a 
burden  crushing  down  her  life  and  robbing  her  of  the  ca- 
reer she  had  been  fond  of  picturing  to  herself.  For  Annie 
was  too  high-principled  a girl  to  try  to  undo  her  own  act 
by  leaving  the  three-months- wedded  husband  who  already 
neglected  and,  in  fact,  bored  her.  She  was  useful  to  him 
in  a way;  he  was  a trifle  more  orderly  in  his  mode  of  life 
since  his  marriage;  she  wrote  his  letters  or  told  him  what 
to  say  and  how  to  spell  the  words.  She  did  not  care 
enough  about  him  to  put  any  irksome  restraint  upon  him, 
having  seen  early  that  her  reproaches  only  made  him 
drink  more  and  spend  more  of  his  time  with  his  inferiors; 
but,  on  the  whole,  her  influence  improved  his  habits  some- 
what. She  said  to  herself,  with  a bitter  smile,  that,  by 
marrying,  she  had  taken  only  a rather  harder  situation  as 
governess,  with  none  of  the  comforts  of  home  and  a pre- 
carious salary.  She  packed  up  her  things,  gloomily,  for 
their  journey,  and  her  heart  sunk  lower  and  igweras  they 
neared  its  end. 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


«T6 

Harry,  on  the  contrary,  grew  more  and  more  excited 
and  light-hearted  as  the  train  approached  Beckham.  His 
happiness  at  finding  himself  again  on  the  way  to  his  be- 
loved dogs  and  horses  found  vent  in  a burst  of  affection. 
He  bounced  into  the  seat  next  to  his  wife  at  the  last  stop- 
ping station  but  one,  when,  two  passengers  having  got  out, 
they  were  left  alone  in  the  carriage.  Then  he  treated  her 
to  a rough  embrace. 

“ Aren’t  you  glad  to  have  left  that  smoky  hole  behind 
you  and  come  into  the  air  again — eh,  Annie?” 

But  Annie  was  not,  and  a furtive  tear  told  him  so.  He 
kissed  her  pretty  little  face  that  the  yachting  trip  had 
bronzed. 

“Don’t  cry,  dear.  Do  you  remember  our  last  journey 
on  this  line,  Annie,  when  you  were  so  frightened  because  I 
jumped  in,  and  wanted  me  to  get  out  at  the  next  station? 
And  what  a long  time  it  was  before  I could  make  you  leave 
off  crying ! But  you  have  nothing  to  cry  about  now,  you 
know,  and  I want  you  to  look  your  best  when  we  get  to 
the  station,  that  everybody  may  say  what  a pretty  little 
wife  I’ve  brought  home.” 

But  there  was  nothing  in  this  speech  soothing  to  Annie, 
who  looked  anything  but  her  best  when  they  did  steam 
into  Beckham  station.  Sir  George  was  on  the  platform  to 
meet  them,  with  a dog-cart  waiting  outside,  and  Harry 
felt  disgusted  and  angry  with  his  wife,  when  logically  he 
should  have  felt  glad,  as  he  saw  by  his  brother’s  first 
glance  at  her  that  he  thought  her  appearance  much 
changed  for  the  worse.  George  drove,  and  Annie  sat 
beside  him,  while  Harry  got  up  behind  with  the  groom. 
She  was  not  verjr  entertaining  to-day,  though  she  tried 
hard  to  be  so ; but  there  was  something  pathetic  to  George 
in  her  attempts  to  be  lively,  and  the  very  tones  of  her  soft 
voice  had  a charm  in  themselves  to  him,  so  that  he  was 
touched,  and  listened  to  her  with  a quiet  kindliness  in  his 
manner  which  made  much  greater  impression  upon  her 
than  the  compliments  and  tender  tones  he  had  used  to  her 
before  her  marriage. 

“ I hope  you  don’t  so  very  much  mind  having  to  come 
and  live  at  the  Grange.  We  will  all  try  to  make  you 
happy,”  he  took  the  opportunity  of  saying  when  Harry’s 
voice,  in  hot  argument  with  the  groom,  rose  loudly  enough 
to  drown  the  tete-a-tete  in  front. 

She  looked  up  at  him  gratefully,  with  the  too  ready  tears 
in  her  eyes* 

“ Thank  you;  I am  sure  you  will,”  she  said,  gently. 

Words  better  left  unsaid  to  the  heartsore  and  neglected 
little  wife  rose  to  his  lips;  but  her  straightforwardness 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 57 

and  a lull  in  the  conversation  at  the  back  checked  them 
—for  the  present. 

She  treasured  up  those  few  words  of  kindness  and  wel- 
come, all  the  more  carefully  that  the  greetings  she  received 
from  the  rest  of  the  family  were  cruelly  cold.  Lady 
Braithwaite  and  her  daughter  held  out  icy  hands  to  her; 
Stephen  had  evidently  taken  sides  with  them;  Wilfred  was 
kind,  but  rather  indifferent;  and  William,  the  youngest, 
was  restrained  by  a very  needless  fear  of  exciting  Harry’s 
jealousy  from  showing  the  warmth  he  really  felt  toward 
the  sad-looking  little  lady  who  had  made  such  a delightful 
playfellow. 

The  fatigue  she  felt  after  such  a long  journey  excused 
her  from  talking  much.  She  sat  very  quiet  during  dinner, 
feeling  scarcely  awake,  and  hardly  catching  the  sense  of 
the  talk  going  on  around  her.  Lilian  did  not  know  very 
much  about  the  odds  for  the  great  races  which  were  under 
discussion;  but  she  liked  to  think  she  did,  and  joined  in 
the  conversation  confidently.  Lady  Braithwaite  listened 
with  interest  to  the  sort  of  squabbling  laying  down  of  the 
law  on  their  favorite  subjects  to  which  her  sons  had  ac- 
customed her  for  years. 

Harry  was  rampant,  rejoicing  to  find  himself  once  more 
able  to  hold  his  own  in  the  talk  around  him ; he  drank 
more  than  usual,  contradicted  everybody,  and,  as  George 
quietly  said,  did  his  best  to  make  his  unobtrusive  pres- 
ence felt. 

Annie  alone  took  no  part  in  it  all,  but  sat  dreading  the 
time  when  she  should  have  to  accompany  the  other  ladies 
into  the  drawing-room  and  be  at  their  mercy. 

At  last  the  moment  came.  She  followed  them  quietly, 
receiving  a parting  chill  at  the  dining-room  door  from  the 
steady  way  in  which  crippled  Stephen,  who  liked  to  show 
his  activity  by  jumping  up  to  open  the  door  for  them, 
though  he  was  not  the  nearest  to  it,  looked  on  the  ground, 
and  not  at  her,  as  she  passed. 

It  was  not  so  bad  as  she  had  expected,  after  all.  Lilian 
had  no  pettiness,  and  did  not  descend  to  small  persecutions. 
She  did  not  show  much  cordiality,  but  hunted  out  all  the 
newest  songs  from  among  the  music  for  Annie  to  try, 
and  then  left  her  to  amuse  herself.  Annie  was  grateful 
for  this;  it  took  her  out  of  the  range  of  Lady  Braith- 
waite’s disapproving  eyes,  and  the  occupation  of  trying 
new  music  kept  her  own  tears  from  falling.  She  could  de- 
fend herself  or  even  attack  boldly  in  argument  or  dispute, 
but  this  armed  coldness  took  all  the  spirit  out  of  her ; she 
could  retreat  behind  her  natural  reserve  and  seem  not  to 
care,  but  there  followed  a bitter  reaction  when  she  was 
alone. 


58 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


It  was  a long  time  before  the  gentlemen  came  in  to  break 
the  silence  in  the  drawing-room.  Lady  Braithwaite  was 
dozing,  Lilian  was  sitting  on  the  hearth-rug,  playing  with 
a retriever  pup,  Annie  was  softly  trying  over  songs  at  the 
piano  at  the  other  end.  Sounds  of  high  voices  and  loud 
laughter  came  from  time  to  time  across  the  hall ; at  last 
they  heard  the  dining-room  door  open,  and  Harry’s  voice 
above  the  rest  in  tones  of  high  excitement. 

“ I tell  you  I can  prove  it,  I can  prove  it!”  he  was  say- 
ing to  George  as  they  two  came  in  first ; his  face  was 
flushed  and  his  gait  unsteady,  and  his  manner  more  dic- 
tatorial than  ever. 

“How  can  you  prove  it?”  asked  George,  who  might 
have  been  drinking  as  much,  but  who  showed  it  less. 

“ By  a paper  I’ve  got  somewhere.  Annie,”  said  he  to 
his  wife,  scarcely  turning  toward  where  she  sat  at  the 
piano,  “ where  is  that  American  paper  the  colonel  gave 
me,  about  the  trotting-matches?” 

“I  packed  it  with  your  papers.  I can  find  it  if  you 
want  it.” 

“Yes,  yes,  I want  it.  Then  I’ll  show  you  I was  right,” 
said  he,  triumphantly,  to  his  brother.  Annie  had  risen, 
and  was  crossing  the  room  to  the  door.  George  inter- 
posed. 

“ No,  no,  not  to  night.  Don’t  you  see  she  is  tired?  You 
can’t  ask  her  to  ransack  your  portmanteau  to-night  for  a 
paper  of  no  importance.  It  will  do  to-morrow.” 

“No,  it  won’t  do  to-morrow,”  said  Harry,  who  was  not 
in  a state  to  brook  contradiction.  4 4 1 say  I will  prove  it 
to  you  now,  to  night.  It  is  of  importance,  of  great  impor- 
tance, very  important!  You  said  I was  wrong;  I say  I’m 
right,  and  I’ll  prove  it.” 

Before  the  end  of  this  speech,  the  last  words  of  which 
were  spoken  with  halting  gravity,  Annie  had  left  the  room, 
gently  insisting  upon  passing  George,  who  would  still  have 
tried  to  prevent  her  going.  Harry,  luckily,  did  not  see 
his  brother’s  good-natured  attempt  to  save  his  tired  little 
wife  a tedious  search  for  an  old  newspaper.  She  went  up 
to  their  room;  it  was  Harry’s  old  room,  with  a second  lit- 
tle bed  put  up  in  it.  His  portmanteau  had  been  unstrapped. 
She  turned  out  the  gas  in  trying  to  turn  it  up;  so  she 
opened  the  door  and  dragged  the  portmanteau  into  the 
corridor,  under  the  burner  outside. 

Fatigue  had  dulled  her  faculties,  and  it  was  a long  time 
before  she  found  what  she  wanted.  She  was  still  search- 
ing when  she  heard  heavy  footsteps  behind  her,  and  look- 
ing round  from  where  she  was  on  her  knees,  she  saw  Wil- 
fred leaning  against  the  friendly  wall. 


59 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 

“ Let  me  help  you,”  said  he;  and  he  knelt  down  beside 
her,  not  without  difficulty. 

She  thanked  him,  though  his  assistance  was  not  likely 
to  prove  valuable. 

"Harry  is  a brute  to  you,”  he  said,  solemnly. 

“Oh,  no;  he  is  only  a little  thoughtless!” 

“Yes,  he  is,”  said  Wilfred.  “ He  is  a brute,  because  he 
is  a fool.  But  he  will  have  to  treat  you  better  now  he  has 
brought  you  home.  We’ll  see  to  that.” 

“ Oh,  I hope  you  won’t  interfere;  it  would  only  make  it 
a great  deal  worse  for  me ! He  is  not  cruel  to  me,  and  I 
don't  mind  his  neglect.” 

“ I dare  say  you  would  rather  have  his  neglect  than  his 
attention,  and  I quite  agree  with  you.  And  now  you 
have  three  nice  new  brothers,  who  will  give  you  all  the  at- 
tention you  want,”  said  he,  looking  at  her  affectionately 
over  the  portmanteau,  while  he  supported  himself  on  his 
elbows  on  the  edge  of  it. 

“Thank  you;  you  won’t  find  me  very  exacting,”  said 
she,  turning  over  some  papers  in  search  of  the  one  she 
wanted. 

But  he  would  not  go. 

“You  maybe  as  exacting  as  you  like  to  me,”  he  con- 
tinued, monotonously;  “ I would  do  anything  for  you. 
You  are  a sweet,  good  little  lady,  and  you  may  take  me  to 
church  if  you  like.” 

She  had  at  last  found  what  she  wanted,  and  rose  quickly 
from  her  knees,  while  Wilfred  slowly  followed  her  ex- 
ample. She  had  shut  the  portmanteau  and  pushed  it  back 
into  the  room  before  he  had  had  time  to  do  more  than 
offer  to  do  so. 

As  she  shut  the  door  and  was  going  down- stairs,  he  put 
his  hand  gently  on  her  arm,  and  they  went  down  stairs  to- 
gether. In  the  hall  he  said,  gently : 

“ You  need  not  think  I am  offended  because  you 
wouldn’t  let  me  help  you,”  and  went  off  to  the  billiard- 
room. 

Wilfred  was  the  most  notorious  reprobate  of  the  lot; 
but  the  instincts  of  a gentleman  showed  oftener  in  him 
than  in  the  others. 

Annie  went  on  to  the  drawing-room,  where  her  hus- 
band, reproaching  her  for  being  so  long,  seized  the  paper 
from  her.  But  his  hands  and  eyes  were  too  unsteady  to 
find  what  he  wanted,  and  she  had  to  find  and  read  it  out 
to  him. 

The  passage,  about  the  pace  of  a celebrated  American 
trotting-mare,  proved  Harry  to  be  right,  and  he  tri- 
umphed loudly,  not  thinking  to  thank  his  wife  for  her 
trouble.  Then  he  asked  her  to  write  to  their  late  lodging 


<50 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


for  a pipe  and  pair  of  spurs  he  had  left  behind,  and  again 
she  quietly  left  the  room,  and  went  into  the  study  to  do 
so. 

This  time  it  was  William  who  interrupted  her.  He 
knocked  softly  at  the  door,  and  came  in  rather  shyly. 

“I  thought  I’d  show  you  where  the  pens  and  paper 
are,”  said  he;  and  he  collected  the  writing  materials  for 
her  and  hunted  for  a stamp  while  she  wrote. 

Then,  when  she  had  directed  the  envelope,  he  put  the 
stamp  on  and  brought  his  fist  down  upon  it  with  an  unnec- 
essary thump. 

“What  is  that  for?” 

44  That’s  to  make  it  stick,  of  course.” 

For  the  first  time  that  evening  Annie  burst  out  laugh- 
ing. The  boy  threw  his  arms  round  her  and  gave  her  a 
sounding  kiss. 

“ I’m  so  glad  to  hear  you  laugh  again.  You  looked  as  if 
you  would  never  laugh  any  more.  And  I’m  so  glad  you’re 
come,  so  jolly  glad!” 

She  was  laughing  and  crying  together  now,  as  she  drew 
the  boy’s  face  to  her  and  kissed  his  cheek. 

“ And  I’m  so  glad  you’re  glad.  We’ll  have  another 
game  at  shuttlecock  to-morrow.” 

“ Oh,  no,”  he  said  earnestly;  “I’ve  got  something  better 
than  that  for  you  to-morrow.  I’ve  got  ajnew  terrier,  the 
gamest  you  ever  saw,  and  we’ll  have  the  most  splendid 
rat-hunt  you  ever  were  at  in  your  life.” 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Annie  did  not  find  life  at  the  Elms  such  a miserable  af- 
fair as  she  had  expected.  That  first  evening  the  key-note 
was  struck  of  the  conduct  of  each  member  of  the  family 
toward  her.  Lady  Braithwaite  continued  to  treat  her 
with  distant  coldness,  or  affected  to  ignore  her  entirely. 
Lilian  followed  suit,  except  at  odd  moments  of  capricious 
good  humor,  when  she  would  treat  her  like  a pretty  child 
to  be  teased  and  caressed.  George  was  kind,  but  instinct 
made  her  shun  tete-a-tetes  with  him.  She  did  not  see  much 
of  Wilfred,  who  used  to  tell  her  that  she  made  him 
ashamed  of  himself  and  promise  to  reform.  He  even  went 
so  far  as  to  attend  a temperance-meeting  in  the  village, 
where,  he  declared  afterward,  that  he  heard  a lot  of  things 
which  were  very  true,  and  where  he  signed  the  pledge 
without  being  asked,  in  the  hope  of  pleasing  her;  he  was 
not  quite  sober  at  the  time.  When  on  his  return  home  he 
went  straight  to  the  sideboard  and  mixed  himself  some 
whisky-and-water,  Stephen  reminded  him  of  his  vowj 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


61 


but  Wilfred  only  said,  softly:  “ Hang  the  pledge!”  and 
went  to  bed  in  the  same  state  as  usual. 

Stephen  scarcely  spoke  to  her.  She  soon  found  out  that 
his  admiration  of  Lilian,  which  she  had  noticed  on  her  first 
visit  to  Garstone  Grange,  had  grown  into  a mad  passion 
Kffiich  the  object  of  it  was  not  slow  to  make  use  of.  He 
was  her  slave;  she  might  snub  him,  torment  him,  hurt  his 
sensitive  feelings ; nothing  could  change  his  devotion  to 
her,  which  was  very  touching  to  Annie,  who  knew  how 
hopeless  his  passion  was,  and  that  the  handsome  girl  used 
her  crippled  lover  only  as  a tool  and  a toy.  For  Lilian 
was  a headstrong,  willful  girl,  more  difficult  to  manage 
than  her  mother  and  brothers  guessed. 

She  had  commissions  to  give  her  cousin  which  nobody 
else  knew  of,  letters  which  she  had  to  coax  him  to  post, 
and  answers  to  them  which  had  to  come  under  cover  to 
him.  And  the  poor  young  fellow  never  faltered  in  his 
allegiance,  but,  after  a stormy  war  of  words  with  her, 
which  she  knew  how  to  end  with  a careless  kiss  brushed 
across  his  burning  forehead,  he  always  gave  way;  and 
her  little  secrets,  whatever  they  might  be,  remained  as 
safe  as  if  no  one  but  herself  in  the  household  knew  of 
them. 

One  of  these  secrets,  and  perhaps  the  most  important, 
had  a narrow  escape  of  being  revealed  one  evening,  how- 
ever, when  Annie  and  her  constant  companion,  William, 
were  standing  still  as  statues  in  the  large,  wire-faced  house 
where  the  rabbit-hutches  were  kept,  amusing  themselves 
by  watching  the  mice  play  about,  and  finally  run  into  the 
traps  they  had  prepared  for  them. 

This  was  a very  favorite  pastime,  always  ending  in  a 
friendly  squabble,  as  William  wanted  to  “ drown  the  little 
pets  ” and  Annie  insisted  upon  letting  4 4 the  dear  little 
things  have  their  liberty  again.”  Finally  half  used  to  be 
drowned  or  given  to  the  cat,  and  half  let  loose  again ; and, 
if  there  was  an  odd  one,  William  tossed  up  for  it. 

It  was  about  six  o’clock  on  a November  evening  that 
they  were  standing  breathless  with  excitement,  straining 
their  eyes  in  the  dusk  to  see  one  cautious  little  mouse  run- 
ning round  and  round  and  all  but  into  the  trap,  when  they 
heard  footsteps  outside,  but  were  far  too  deeply  interested 
to  look  round.  Presently  they  heard  another  sound,  and 
knew  by  the  noise  of  the  crutches  on  the  ground  that  it 
was  Stephen  who  was  approaching.  They  heard  the  foot- 
steps of  the  first  comer  going  to  meet  him,  and  Lilian’s 
voice  saying  impatiently : 

“What  a long  time  you  have  been!  I thought  you 
were  never  coming  I Is  there  one?  Give  it  me — quick, 


62 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


“There  it  is,”  said  Stephen,  sullenly.  “What— aren’t 
you  going  to  give  me  a word  of  thanks,  when  I went  out 
all  the  way  to  Beckham  for  you  when  I was  in  such  pain? 
Oh,  Lilian,  have  you  no  heart?” 

William  and  Annie  could  not  see  the  speakers,  though 
they  could  hear  every  word— could  hear  too  the  impatient 
tearing  of  an  envelope.  Then  Lilian’s  voice,  in  a soft, 
cooing,  but  only  half-attentive  tone,  said : 

“Yes,  you  are  a dear,  dear  good  boy,  and  my  best — 
friend — in  the  world.  ” Then  more  quickly.  4 4 Just  let  me 
finish  reading  this,  there’s  a dear,  kind  fellow!” 

There  was  a pause,  and  a heavy  sigh  from  the  cripple. 
Then  Lilian  spoke  again  more  brightly : 

“ Now,  I can  thank  you  as  you  deserve.  I feel  as  happy 
as  a bird,  and  all  thanks  to  you,”  she  added,  caressingly. 
But  Stephen  was  sullen. 

“It  is  not  thanks  to  me;  it  is  thanks  to  the  man  who 
wrote  that  infernal  letter!  I wish  I had  died  before  I 
brought  it  to  you!” 

“ Why  did  you  bring  it  then?  Why  have  you  brought 
me  a dozen  from  the  same  person,  all  under  cover  to 
you?” 

“ Because— because  I couldn’t  help  it — because  I must 
do  what  you  tell  me,  in  spite  of  myself.  Oh,  Lilian,  can 
you  reproach  me  with  what  I do  for  you?” 

“Iam  not  reproaching  you,  you  dear  old,  silly  boy! 
I was  thanking  you,  when  you  suddenly  began  to  scold 
me.  I trust  you  more  than  anybody  else  in  the  world; 
you  know  I do.” 

“Then  why  don’t  you  trust  me  entirely,  and  tell  me 
whom  the  letters  are  from?  You  know  I would  never  be- 
tray you.  You  know  that,  whoever  it  was,  I would  do 
for  you  then  all  that  I do  now,  and  more— if  that  could  be.  ’ ’ 

4 4 Why  don’t  you  tear  them  open  and  see?  They  all  pass 
through  your  hands.” 

41 1 would  if  they  were  any  one’s  letters  but  yours.  But 
your  wishes  are  sacred  to  me — they  are,  indeed,  and,  if  I 
were  to  do  that,  you  would  never  speak  to  me  again.” 

44  Well,  to  judge  from  the  way  you  reproach  me,  that 
would  be  a very  good  thing.” 

“No,  Lilian,  no,  no!  Be  cruel  to  me  as  you  like;  but 
don’t  talk  of  casting  me  aside  like  that.  What  more  can 

I do  for  you  than  I have  done?  What ” 

They  heard  his  voice  in  passionate  protest  long  after  the 
words  themselves  were  lost,  as  the  sound  of  the  crutches, 
following  Lilian  toward  the  house,  grew  fainter  on  the 
pathway.  The  interest  Annie  and  William  had  taken  in 
the  mice  was  quite  gone.  They  still  stood  opposite  to  each 
pther  in  the  deepening  dusk ; but  for  some  minutes  after 


A VAGRANT  WIFE.  63 

the  voices  had  become  inaudible  they  could  not  find  a word 
to  say.  At  last  William  broke  the  silence. 

“ I say,  Annie,  what  on  earth  do  you  think  Lilian  is  up 
to?” 

“I  don’t  know;  I can’t  think!” 

“ It  can’t  be  all  square,  you  know.  I wonder  who  it  is 
that  is  writing  to  her?  However,  she  always  was  full  of 
tricks,  and  it  is  no  good  saying  any  thing.  I shall  just  hold 
my  tongue  about  it;  wouldn’t  you?” 

“ Yes,  certainly.  We  can’t  do  anything  to  stop  it,  and 
we  heard  it  all  by  accident.  We  should  only  make  every- 
body angry  with  her  and  she ” 

“Would  swear  we  have  told  lies,  and  Stephen  would 
back  her  up.” 

“And  we  shouldn’t  prevent  her  getting  her  own  way 
even  then,”  said  Annie,  sorrowfully. 

She  had  a shrewd  suspicion  who  the  unknown  corre- 
spondent was,  and  an  incident  which  occurred  a little  later 
confirmed  it. 

Meanwhile  the  quiet  outdoor  country  life  she  led,  always 
driving,  or  walking,  or  playing  some  game  of  their  own 
invention  with  William,  had  rapidly  restored  to  her  beauty 
the  bloom  that  unhappiness  and  ennui  had  begun  to  rob  it 
of.  George  took  the  most  notice  of  this  improvement,  and 
Harry  the  least.  Yet  even  the  lat  ter  was  not  quite  insen- 
sible to  the  change  for  the  better  in  his  wife’s  good  looks, 
and  told  her  one  day,  with  rough  good  humor,  that  mar- 
ried life  seemed  to  agree  with  her,  though  she  did  not  seem 
to  appreciate  what  it  had  done  for  her.  Annie  answered 
with  a rather  ironical  laugh.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the 
appreciation  ought  to  be  on  the  other  side. 

For  he  remained  one  of  the  most  careless  and  selfish  of 
husbands,  while  she  fulfilled  her  duty  to  him  with  an  ex- 
actness which  got  no  thanks  from  him.  She  was  his  slave 
in  little  things,  and  never  asked  for  the  smallest  service  or 
attention  in  return.  Perhaps  Wilfred  was  right  when  he 
suggested  that  she  would  rather  be  without  it.  However 
that  might  be,  he  was  as  free  to  go  where  he  pleased  and 
do  as  he  pleased  as  in  his  bachelor  days,  while  he  alone,  of 
all  these  young  men,  never  had  to  hunt  for  things  he  had 
mislaid,  never  had  to  cry  out  for  a missing  button,  and 
had  his  scanty  correspondence  done  for  him  much  better 
than  he  could  have  done  it  for  himself. 

William  once  humbly  expressed  a wish  that  she  would 
get  the  servants  to  look  after  his  hunting-things  as  she 
did  for  Harry.  But  she  only  laughed  at  him. 

“Well,”  said  William,  rather  aggrieved,  swinging  his 
legs  backward  and  forward  from  the  gate  on  which  they 


64 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


were  sitting  together,  “ I do  ever  so  many  more  things  for 
you  than  Harry  does.” 

“Ah,  but  then  he  is  my  husband!”  returned  she,  offer- 
ing him  an  apple. 

“ I say,  Annie,  you  don’t  like  Harry,  do  you?”  he  asked, 
mysteriously,  after  a pause. 

“Of  course  I do!  How  can  you  ask  me  such  a ques- 
tion?” said  the  outraged  wife  indignantly. 

“Oh,  well,  I don’t  believe  you  do,  all  the  same!”  said 
he,  obstinately.  “ And  I don’t  wonder!  If  I were  you,  I 
would  let  him  run  away,  and  then  you  could  get  rid  of 
him  and  marry  somebody  nicer.” 

“Do  you  know  what  you  are  talking  about?”  asked 
Annie,  haughtily,  drawing  herself  up  with  as  much  dig- 
nity as  the  maintenance  of  her  balance  on  the  top  rail  of  a 
five-barred  gate  would  allow. 

“Yes,  quite  well,  Annie  dear;  I am  saying  it  only  for 
your  good,”  said  he,  his  boyish  sense  of  humor  peeping 
out  in  spite  of  his  being  really  half  in  earnest. 

And  then  they  laughed  themselves  off  the  gate. 

For  this  was  how  the  regime  of  coldness  and  neglect  on 
the  part  of  her  husband,  mother-in-law,  and  sister-in-law 
had  turned  out.  It  had  thrown  Mrs.  Harold  Braith waite 
upon  the  society  of  her  youngest  brother-in-law,  and  made 
of  her  a melancholy  statue  in  the  house,  a happy  hoiden 
out  of  it.  The  only  thing  she  was  careful  of  was  to  avoid 
the  scenes  of  the  daily  walks  of  her  late  pupils  during 
their  out-of-school  hours,  as  she  told  William  it  might 
have  a bad  moral  effect  upon  them  to  see  their  late  gov- 
erness scrambling  up  banks,  and  in  other  undignified  situa- 
tions. 

She  was  out  of  doors  nearly  all  day,  it  not  having  yet 
occurred  to  Lady  Braith  waite  to  torment  her  daughter-in- 
law,  who  was  very  submissive  to  her,  by  making  her  stay 
in  to  help  to  entertain  chance  visitors.  She  got  two  in- 
vitations, however,  with  the  other  ladies,  and  endured 
with  them  and  George  a dull  dinner-party,  and  with 
them,  without  George,  a duller  afternoon  tea,  at  both  of 
which  she  was  much  admired  and  looked  upon  as  a pretty 
child.  Her  style  of  beauty  led  to  this  mistake;  she  was  so 
small,  so  low- voiced,  had  such  fresh-colored,  rounded 
cheeks,  and  such  timid  though  pretty  manners  that  no- 
body suspected  the  strength  of  will,  and  ambition,  and 
other  deep-seated  qualities,  of  which  their  young  possessor 
was  herself  scarcely  aware.  They  lay  dormant  indeed 
just  now.  The  uppermost  side  of  her  many-sided  nature 
at  present  was  a buoyancy  of  spirit  which  made  a lad 
scarcely  sixteen  her  favorite  companion,  and  a wild  de- 
light in  having  escaped  from  the  shackles  of  the  school- 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


65 


room  on  the  one  hand,  and  of  lodging  alone  with  a sulky, 
ignorant  husband  on  the  other. 

And,  just  when  her  heart  began  to  cry  out  for  some- 
thing more  than  this,  she  made  a discovery  which  sent  her 
to  her  knees  in  utter  joy  and  thankfulness  to  Heaven.  No 
more  ennui , no  more  repining  now ; even  in  the  house  the 
gravity  of  her  little  face  gave  place  to  an  expression  full 
of  hope  and  sweetness,  while,  once  escaped  from  silent 
submission  and  Lady  Braithwaite,  her  eyes  would  dance 
and  her  lips  break  into  soft  song,  till  William  declared  he 
did  not  know  what  had  come  over  her,  and  confessed  one 
day,  with  a lump  in  his  throat  when  she  stopped  to  rest  on 
a felled  tree,  that  he  believed  she  was  going  to  die  and  go 
to  heaven. 

‘ 4 And — and  you  seem  to  be  glad ; and — and  it  is  beastly 
of  you  when  you  know  how  fond  I ” 

Here  the  lad  gave  way;  and  she  laughed  at  him  and 
made  him  sit  by  her,  and  told  him  he  was  talking  non- 
sense. 

“ If  I look  ‘so  sweet  ’ as  you  say,  that  marvelous  effect 
is  due,  not  to  my  being  dying  of  consumption,  but  to  the 
Garstone  air,  which  is  making  another  woman  of  me.” 

“ Then  why  do  you  always  want  to  stop  and  rest?  You 
never  used  to.” 

“ Because — because  the  cold  weather  is  coming  on,  and 
that  always  tries  me.  ’ ’ 

“But  it  oughtn’t  to;  it  ought  to  brace  you  up.” 

“ Here  come  the  Mainwarings!  Let  us  get  through  the 
hedge,”  interrupted  Annie. 

And  an  undignified  exit  put  a stop  to  the  conversation. 
Annie  told  her  secret  to  no  one  living. 

That  very  day,  when  these  two  returned  home  just  in 
time  for  dinner,  they  found  that  an  unexpected  guest  had 
arrived.  It  was  Colonel  Richardson.  Beckham  was  not 
in  a hunting-country,  but  a journey  of  an  hour  and  a half 
by  train  took  the  Braithwaites  within  an  easy  distance  of 
the  meets  of  a very  good  pack  of  fox-hounds;  and  it  was 
at  a hunt-breakfast  that  day  that  the  three  eldest  Braith' 
waites  had  met  him.  Harry,  delighted  to  see  his  idol 
again,  had  introduced  him  to  his  brothers,  and  Sir  George 
had  invited  him  to  return  with  them  to  the  Grange,  to 
break  the  journey  to  Scotland,  where  the  colonel  was  due. 
He  scarcely  recognized  Annie,  she  was  so  much  changed 
for  the  better.  Lilian  received  him  with  an  indifference 
which,  to  Annie’s  observant  eyes,  seemed  rather  over- 
done. 

That  evening,  after  dinner,  when  the  ladies  went  into 
the  drawing-room,  Annie  went  as  usual  straight  to  the 
piano,  while  Lilian  lounged  upon  a low  seat  in  the  corner 


66 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


near  the  entrance  to  the  conservatory;  her  favorite  re- 
triever came  to  rub  his  head  against  her  hand,  and  Annie 
thought,  as  she  looked  from  the  dog  to  its  mistress,  that 
she  had  never  seen  such  a lovely  womafi.  For  Lilian  had 
taken  the  utmost  pains  with  her  dress  that  evening;  her 
black  gown,  cut  square  at  the  neck,  set  off  the  fairness 
of  her  complexion.  She  habitually  despised  ornaments, 
and  could  afford  to  do  so;  but  to-night  a few  sprays  of 
white  azalea  and  white  heath  and  delicate  maiden-hair  fern 
relieved  the  somber  dress,  and  a very  small  bunch  of  azalea 
and  fern  was  fastened  by  a gold-headed  pin  in  her  chestnut 
hair.  And  Annie  saw  the  girl’s  face  flush  when  they 
heard  the  dining-room  door  open  and  the  gentlemen’s 
voices  across  the  hall ; but  when  they  all  entered  the  room, 
Colonel  Richardson  came,  in  a few  minutes,  not  to  that 
seat  near  the  conservatory,  but  to  the  piano,  and  told 
Annie  that  Schubert  was  his  favorite  composer.  For  it 
was  a song  from  the  “ Schwanengesang,”  arranged  for  the 
piano,  that  she  was  playing. 

Annie  looked  up  with  irrepressible  surprise  that  he 
should  recognize  it.  She  was  so  used  to  an  audience  who 
considered  all  music  above  the  level  of  Offenbach  as  a not 
unpleasant  noise  that  her  face  beamed  with  pleasure  at  his 
very  simple  remark. 

“I  will  play  you  another — my  favorite,”  said  she. 

And,  in  her  delight  at  being  with  an  appreciative  list- 
ener,! she  played  better  than  usual,  and  at  the  end 
looked  up  naively  for  his  approval.  He  gave  it  without 
stint ; and  she  went  on  from  these  to  other  favorite  pieces, 
which  she  knew  well  enough  to  be  able  to  talk  at  the 
same  time. 

“You  must  lead  an  isolated  life  here,  I should  think, 
with  no  one  to  talk  to?” 

“So  I don’t  talk,”  said  she,  smiling;  “ I run  wild  in  the 
fields  with  William.” 

“ Do  you  like  the  life?” 

“Yes  and — no.  I like  it  when  I don’t  think.  I like 
walking  so  far  and  running  so  fast  and  jumping  over  so 
many  ditches  that  I am  too  tired  at  night  to  do  anything 
but  long  for  bed-time.” 

“ But  you  can’t  pass  all  your  life  like  that.” 

“That  is  the  worst  of  it.  I hate  the  thought  of  coming 
back  to  semi-civilization  when  I am  too  old  for  my  savage 
pastimes.” 

“ You  used  to  write  a little,  I think  you  told  me.  Have 
you  given  it  up!” 

“Quite.  I could  never  make  a great  author  now,  and 
nothing  less  would  content  me.” 

He  smiled ; there  was  something  of  the  simplicity  of  a 


A VAGBANT  WIFE 


0 7 


child  about  this  matron.  To  be  a great  author  one  had 
but  to  wish  it  and  to  be  unmarried.  And  he  lingered 
about  the  piano  a long  time,  discussing  authors  and  au- 
thorship, and  now  and  then  hazarding  a remark  made  ex- 
pressly to  bring  the  indignant  fire  into  her  eyes  and  some 
speech  to  her  pretty  lips  piquant  in  its  severity. 

At  last  Lilian  could  bear  it  no  longer;  she  rose  and,  with 
heightened  color,  and  a dangerous  light  in  her  eyes, 
walked  to  the  piano. 

44  Won’t  you  sing  something,  Annie?” 

Her  sister-in-law  at  once  complied,  and,  before  she  had 
finished  the  first  verse,  Lilian  had  diverted  the  colonel’s 
attention  from  all  but  herself.  The  song  ended,  Annie 
rose,  and,  her  cheeks  still  flushed  with  the  excitement  of 
playing  her  best,  slipped  into  the  cool  conservatory,  mur- 
muring the  last  words  of  her  song  still  softly  to  herself. 
She  had  not  been  there  two  minutes  before  George  joined 
her. 

“You  don’t  mind  smoke,  Annie,  do  you?” 

“ No;  besides,  I am  going  back  into  the  drawing-room.” 
44  Don’t  go  yet.  It  is  much  nicer  out  here.  And  Harry 
has  a quarrelsome  fit  on  and  would  disgust  you.” 

That  instantly  checked  her  steps.  Harry’s  bursts  of 
childish  petulance  were  among  her  greatest  trials.  She 
turned  with  an  impatient  sigh  again  to  the  flowers. 

44  You  played  beautifully  to-night,  much  better  than  you 
ever  play  for  any  of  us.” 

44  Colonel  Richardson  understands  music.” 

44  While  we  understand  only  drinking  and  fighting;  that 
is  what  you  mean,  isn’t  it?” 

“Oh,  no,  it  is  not ! You  understand  a great  many  things 
which  I know  nothing  about — how  to  tease  a person  to 
death,  for  instance,”  said  she,  with  weary  petulance. 

44  That  is  unkind,  ” said  George,  quietly.  44  Never  mind ; 
I won’t  reproach  you  now,  when  you  are  tired  and  excited 
by  your  own  playing.” 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  some  surprise. 

44  It  is  astonishing  that  such  a boor  as  I should  have  no- 
ticed that,  isn’t  it,  and  that  I should  know  the  difference 
between  the  half-mechanical  playing  of  pretty  tunes  and 
music  full  of  passion  and  feeling,  like  that  you  gave  Colonel 
Richardson  to-night.” 

“ I did  not  know  you  liked  music,”  said  she,  in  a low, 
troubled  voice. 

44  You  never  took  the  trouble  to  inquire;  did  you?  But 
even  among  the  4 semi-civilized  ’ — to  quote  some  words  I 
heard  you  use  to-night— there  may  be  capabilities  for 
something  better,  may  there  not?” 

Annie  hung  her  head  in  confusion.  He  spoke  quite 


68  A VAGRANT  WIFE. 

gently,  and  looked  down  at  her  as  if  he  were  hurt,  not 
angry. 

44 1 am  sorry— I spoke  without  thinking,”  she  said,  in  an 
unsteady  voice.  4 4 You  were  right;  I am  very  tired,  and 
that  makes  me  cross  and — and  foolish.  But  I won’t  play 
mechanically  to  you  again.  I will  find  out  what  you  like 
best,  and  learn  to  play  that  as  well  as  I possibly  can;  and 
I’m  so  sorry  you  were  hurt  by  my  rude  speech!” 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  him,  to  see  whether  he  had  for- 
given her;  he  took  it,  held  it  in  the  warm  pressure  of  his, 
and  finally  kissed  the  little  fingers  two  or  three  times  be- 
fore letting  them  go. 

44  You  are  a dear  little  creature,  and  I should  like  you 
to  insult  me  every  day  for  the  pleasure  of  forgiving  you. 
But  that  is  too  much  to  hope  for;  you  won’t  do  more  than 
ignore  me.” 

44Is  that  fair?  You  pretend  to  forgive  me,  and  then 
bring  another  accusation  against  me  in  the  same  breath,” 
protested  Annie,  who  did,  indeed,  habitually  avoid  tete-a- 
tetes  with  him,  but  who,  as  usual,  once  brought  to  bay, 
was  perfectly  at  her  ease  and  able  to  defend  herself. 

44  Well,  I thought  I had  better  state  all  my  grievances  at 
once,  as  I know  it  will  be  a long  time  before  you  give  me 
another  chance.  Seriously,  it  gives  me  great  pain  to  see 
you  sitting  silent  in  my  house  or  slipping  through  the  rooms 
like  a snubbed  and  neglected  child,  only  waking  up  into 
life  and  brightness  when  you  are  out  of  sight  of — those 
who  are  longing  to  see  you  happy.” 

The  tears  were  in  her  eyes.  She  was  touched  by  the 
kindness  of  his  words ; but  how  could  she  tell  him  that  his 
own  mother  and  sister  cast,  by  their  coldness,  a chill  upon 
her  from  which,  in  their  presence,  it  was  impossible  for 
her  to  escape? 

44  I will  try  to  be  more  cheerful,”  said  she  humbly,  and 
rather  dismally. 

“No,  that  won’t  do,”  declared  George,  impatiently.  44 1 
don’t  want  you  to  pump  up  liveliness  that  you  don’t  feel, 
or  laugh  when  you  feel  inclined  to  cry.” 

4 4 Then  what  do  you  want  me  to  do?” 

4 4 W ell,  when  anything  amuses  you,  and  you  look  stealth- 
ily at  William  with  a perfectly  stolid  face  but  a laugh  in 
your  eyes,  will  you  look  at  me,  too?  I can  enjoy  a joke  as 
well  as  he.” 

“Did  you  notice  that?”  said  Annie,  wonderingly. 

“Yes;  you  exaggerate  my  dullness  enormously.  Now, 
will  you  promise  to  share  the  joke  with  me?” 

“But  William  is  only  a boy.  If  I were  to  laugh  with 
you  as  I do  with  him,  Harry  would  think  himself  shunted 
&nd  be  horribly  unpleasant,  as  usual.  I don’t  mean  to 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


60 


say  anything  against  Harry,”  she  added,  hastily.  “He 
is  your  brother ” 

“Do  you  think  I feel  so  tenderly  toward  him,  that  I 
cannot  hear  a word  of  truth  about  him?”  said  George  pas- 
sionately. “Do  you  think  I cherish  any  deep  affection 
for  the  brute  who  first  robbed  me  of  the  treasure  I Would 
have  died  to  win,  and  then  neglected  her,  crushed  the 
brightness  out  of  her  youth  by  his  boorish  ignorance,  in- 
sulted and  disgusted  her  by  his  tastes  and  habits?” 

Annie  was  frightened  by  his  vehemence — moved  too  in 
spite  of  herself.  He  saw  this,  and  seized  his  advantage. 

“Annie,”  said  he,  bending  down  over  her  with  his  hand- 
some face  full  of  passionate  tenderness,  “it  is  too  late 
now;  but  didn’t  you  care  for  me  a little  once?” 

With  a long  sobbing  breath  which  was  almost  a cry, 
Annie  bent  her  head  instinctively  to  hide  her  face,  and, 
springing  away  before  he  could  detain  her,  went  back  into 
the  drawing-room. 

Sir  George  drew  himself  up  again  to  his  full  height,  and 
mechanically  put  his  long- since- extinguished  cigar  to  his 
lips.  He  was  answered. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

The  next  day  Colonel  Richardson  went  to  Scotland,  afte* 
taking  a very  warm  farewell  of  Annie,  who,  so  far  as  she 
herself  was  concerned,  was  extremely  sorry  for  his  de- 
parture. He  was  the  only  man  to  whom  she  had  spoken 
since  her  marrige  who  had  tastes  in  common  with  her,  and 
whose  views  of  life  were  not  bounded  by  the  stable,  the 
kennel,  and  the  dinner-table.  George  had  indeed  shown 
himself  to  be  ready  to  enter  into  her  feelings,  but  his  sym- 
pathy she  was  afraid  to  encourage.  It  was  true  that  she 
had  felt  for  him,  from  the  first  time  he  had  talked  to  her 
at  the  Grange  dinner-table,  a warmer  sentiment  than  she 
had  ever  felt  for  Harry  or  any  other  man ; and,  though 
since  her  marriage  she  had  stifled  it  without  much  diffi- 
culty, she  could  not  but  know  his  interest  in  her  remained 
strong.  She  felt,  however,  that  since  last  night’s  talk  she 
would  have  to  be  more  careful  as  to  her  conduct,  and  com- 
bine prudence  with  a little  more  graciousness.  It  did  not 
prove  so  difficult,  after  all. 

That  very  afternoon  she  had  gone  into  the  library  to 
amuse  herself  among  the  old  books  that  nobody  else  ever 
touched,  but  in  whose  very  presence  she  delighted;  and 
she  was  perched  upon  the  ladder  that  stood  there  by 
which  to  reach  the  highest  shelves,  and  had  covered  her- 
self with  dust  in  her  endeavors  to  get  at  the  dingy -looking 
volume  whose  only  attraction  lay  in  the  fact  that  it  was 


70 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


out  of  reach,  when  Sir  George  came  in.  She  was  sur- 
prised to  see  him,  as  she  had  never  seen  any  of  the  broth- 
ers indulge  in  heavier  reading  than  that  which  a sporting 
paper  afforded. 

4 4 What  are  you  doing  among  my  books?”  he  asked,  with 
severity. 

44 1 don’t  wonder  you  are  astonished  to  see  any  one  read- 
ing them,”  said  she,  looking  down  saucily,  with  her  dull 
discovery  open  in  her  hand. 

44  You  think  I don’t  know  how  to  read,  I believe.” 

44 1 am  sure  you  couldn’t  read  this,  at  any  rate.  It  is 
called  4 Extracts  from  the  Sermons  of  the  Reverend 
Thomas  Dobbs,  late  Vicar  of  Garstone,’  and  it  is  dated 
1844.” 

44  Why,  no;  I indulge  in  that  only  on  very  special  occa- 
sions! I don’t  think  much  of  your  literary  taste.” 

44  And  I don’t  think  much  of  your  library.  I can’t  find 
anything  better.” 

44  Oh,  nonsense!  Here’s  the  4 Life  of  Knox,’  and  the 
4 Works  of  Josephus,’ and  4 Fox’s  Martyrs.’  I remember 
my  mother  cured  us  of  the  vice  of  reading  when  we  were 
youngsters  by  letting  us  have  these  entertaining  works  to 
read  on  Sundays.  Have  you  ever  noticed,  Annie,  that 
careless  and  irreligious  parents  are  always  very  particular 
about  what  their  children  read  on  Sunday?” 

4 4 But  I am  too  old  to  be  cured  in  that  simple  manner. 
Find  me  something  nicer,  please.” 

44  Come  down,  then,  and  sit  by  the  fire,  and  I'll  find  you 
‘Clarissa  Harlovve,’  or  something  else  as  light  and  frivo- 
lous.” 

She  came  down  and  sat  in  the  chair  he  drew  on  to  the 
hearth-rug,  while  he  brought  one  book  after  another,  and, 
after  dusting  it  carefully,  placed  it  on  her  lap.  Sometimes 
he  would  kneel  by  her  side  for  a few  minutes  to  look  over 
one  with  her,  and  listen  to  her  remarks  upon  it;  and  they 
got  on  so  well  together  over  this  pastime  that  by  the  time 
the  light  of  the  December  afternoon  had  faded,  and  the 
red  glow  of  the  fire  was  all  they  had  to  see  by,  the  awk- 
ward barrier  between  them  was  quite  broken  down,  and 
a friendly  intercourse  between  them  begun,  which  was  to 
Annie  merely  a new  pleasure,  but  which  brought  to  the 
young  baronet  a delight  which  he  knew  to  be  full  of  peril. 

After  that  day  she  avoided  him  no  longer,  but  treated 
him  with  gracious  gratitude  for  his  kindness,  which  would 
have  disarmed  a man  of  better  principles. 

Lilian’s  coldness  to  her  had  grown  into  more  open  dislike 
since  Colonel  Richardson’s  fondness  for  music  had  kept  him 
so  long  at  her  side  on  the  eve  of  his  journey  to  Scotland. 
But  the  girl  could  not  do  xiiuch  to  make  her  sister-in-l^w 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


11 

uncomfortable  for  fear  of  her  eldest  brother,  with  whom 
she  jealously  felt  Annie’s  interest  to  be  strong.  Young 
Sir  George  was  a harder  and  somewhat  colder  man  than 
his  father  had  been,  and  took  the  lead  in  the  family  of 
which  he  was  now  the  head  as  much  by  character  as  by 
position. 

It  was  getting  very  near  Christmas  when  the  baronet 
told  his  sister  one  day  at  luncheon  that  he  wished  to  speak 
to  her.  They  went  into  the  library  together,  had  a long 
interview,  and,  when  the  girl  came  out,  her  face  was  red 
and  swollen  with  crying.  She  was  very  silent  that  even- 
ing, and  Stephen  watched  her  in  wistful  wretchedness. 
He  had  not  been  able  to  speak  to  her  that  afternoon;  he 
could  only  guess  at  the  reason  for  her  unhappiness,  and  he 
sat  brooding  sullenly  over  George’s  cruelty  in  bringing 
tears  to  those  proud  eyes,  and  longing  to  be  with  her 
alone,  that  he  might  learn  what  her  trouble  was  and  com- 
fort her.  It  was  late  in  the  evening  before  he  got  an 
opportunity  of  speaking  to  her  in  the  mornin^room, 
whither  she  had  gone  on  the  pretext  of  fetching  some 
work,  knowing  well  that  her  cousin  would  follow  her. 
;She  broke  into  the  subject  at  once. 

“ Mr.  Falconer  has  proposed  for  me,  and  George  insists 
on  my  accepting  him.” 

Mr.  Falconer  was  a rich  gentleman  of  about  forty,  who 
had  paid  Lilian  marked  attention  for  some  time.  Lilian 
affected  to  look  down  upon  him  because  his  father  had 
made  his  money  in  “cotton;”  but  the  sneer  was  absurd, 
as  her  admirer  was  a man  scarcely  less  stalwart  and  hand- 
some than  her  own  brothers,  and  as  much  their  superior 
in  intellect,  character,  and  feeling  as  it  was  possible  for  a 
jnan  to  be. 

Stephen  leaned  on  his  crutches,  trembling  from  head  to 
foot  at  the  news.  He  had  known  very  well,  poor  fellow, 
in  spite  of  mad  dreams  after  an  occasional  moment  of  her 
fascinating  kindness,  that  she  could  never  be  his;  but  her 
marriage  had  been  a horrible  dread  for  the  distant  future, 
and,  now  that  it  proved  a not  distant  reality,  his  heart 
sunk  within  him.  She  was  touched  by  the  utter  prostra- 
tion of  this  poor  cripple,  who  would,  as  she  very  well 
knew,  have  given  his  life  at  any  moment  for  her.  She  led 
him  to  a chair,  and  tried  to  cheer  him  with  a sort  of  regal 
tenderness.  At  last  he  said,  his  lips  trembling : 

“ But  George  can’t  force  you  to  marry  him,  Lily.” 

“Yes,  he  can,  practically.  The  money  that  ought  to 
have  been  mine,  of  course,  I shall  never  get  from  this 
spendthrift  crew.  George  says  it  is  impossible  that  he  can 
give  me  what  my  father  intended  me  to  have,  that  the  es- 
tate is  so  burdened  that  there  may  be  a break-up  before 


*72 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


very  long,  and  I am  half  inclined  to  believe  him.  So  I am 
portionless,  and  ought  to  think  myself  lucky  to  get  a hus- 
band at  all,  it  seems.” 

“But,  Lilian,  that  is  nonsense!  You  are  the  most  beau- 
tiful girl  in  the  country;  you  will  make  a sensation  in 
London,  and  marry  a duke,  if  you  like.  You  are  surely 
never  going  to  let  George  do  what  he  likes  with  you,  with 
your  high  spirit?” 

The  girl  did  not  answer,  but  impulsively  hid  her  face  in 
her  hands.  A light  came  into  Stephen’s  troubled  eyes,  and 
he  shuddered  as  he  looked  at  her. 

“ Lily,”  he  whispered,  “ has  George  heard  anything?” 

“ 1 think  so,”  she  answered,  without  looking  up.  “ He 
just  hinted,  in  a way  that  made  me  think  he  must  have 
been  prying  into  my  affairs,  that  it  would  be  better  for  me 
to  do  as  he  wished.  But,  after  all,”  she  cried,  in  a differ- 
ent tone,  raising  her  proud  head  from  the  table  as  sud- 
denly as  she  had  cast  it  down,  “ I have  done  nothing  wrong 
— nothing  to  be  ashamed  of.  It  is  not  my  fault  if  I am  so 
hunted  and  teased  and  mistrusted  by  my  own  family  that 
I cannot  see  what  friends  I please,  but  must  correspond 
with  them  secretly.  For  I won’t  give  up  my  friends  at 
any  one’s  bidding!” 

“ But  you  saw  him  not  long  ago,  and  by  your  friends’ 
invitation,”  said  Stephen,  in  a low  voice. 

“ What  do  you  mean?” 

“Do  you  think  I didn’t  know  at  the  first  moment  of 
seeing  you  with  Colonel  Bichardson,  that  it  was  his  letters 
I had  been  receiving  for  you?  Oh,  Lilian — and  he  is  mar- 
ried!” 

“And  what  if  he  is?”  asked  the  girl,  quietly.  “ I like 
him  well  enough  to  marry  him  if  he  were  free;  but  I am 
not  going  to  give  up  his  friendship  just  because  Aunt  Con- 
stantia  and  mamma  and  Annie  insulted  him  and  me  when 
I was  in  town  by  saying  our  acquaintance  was  improper. 
I shall  have  what  friends  I please — now  and  always;  and, 
if  I am  to  marry  Mr.  Falconer  soon  after  Christmas,  1 will 
see  Colonel  Bichardson  again  before  then.” 

“Soon  after  Christmas!”  echoed  Stephen,  in  a low 
voice. 

“So  George  says.  And  the  sooner  the  better,  for  then  I 
shall  be  free,”  said  the  girl,  impatiently.  “And  now  you 
must  post  a letter  for  me  at  Beckham  to-morrow— just  one 
more— the  last,”  she  added,  coaxingly. 

“To  Colonel  Bichardson,  under  cover,  as  "sual,  I sup- 
pose?” 

“Yes.  And,  as  it  is  perhaps  the  very  last  service  you 
will  ever  be  able  to  do  me,  I am  sure  you  won’t  tease 
about  it,  will  you?” 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


73 


“ It  is  a very  bad  service  I am  doing  you,  Lily.  If 
George  were  really  to  find  it  out,  I think  he  would  kill  me, 
and  perhaps  you.” 

“ Oh,  the  sense  of  honor  is  not  so  keen  as  you  imagine 
in  our  family!”  sneered  Lilian.  “He  would  bully  us 
both,  and  perhaps  strike  one  of  us;  but  he  wouldn’t  risk 
hanging  on  your  account  or  mine.” 

“But  what  do  you  want  to  say  to  Colonel  Richardson?” 
“ I want  to  tell  him  to  come  and  say  good-bye  to  me  be- 
fore he  goes  away,  for  he  lias  been  ordered  abroad.  George 
won’t  invite  him  here  again,  I know;  but  I must  see  him, 
and  I will.” 

“ But  how  can  you ” 

“He  must  come  on  Christmas  Day,  in  the  evening.  You 
know  how  my  brothers  will  celebrate  Christmas  by  drink- 
ing more  than  usual,  and  then  quarreling  among  them- 
selves. They  will  soon  give  me  an  excuse  for  leaving 
their  society,  and  I will  meet  Colonel  Richardson  at  the 
gate  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden — the  one  that  leads  to  the 
short  cut  to  Beckham.” 

“You  would  risk  that?  Think  what  you  are  doing, 
Lilian.  Colonel  Richardson  would  never  consent  to  put 
your  reputation  in  peril  like  that.” 

“He  will  put  himself  in  peril  too,  with  my  wild  brothers 
about;  so  he’ll  risk  it.  And  I know  howto  make  him 
come.  I’ll  tell  him,  if  he  doesn’t  come  down  here,  I’ll 
come  up  to  London  to  see  him.” 

“ Lily,  are  you  mad?  I will  not  help  you  to  do  this.” 
“Very  well,  then;  I’ll  risk  it  without  your  help — post 
my  own  letter,  receive  the  answer,  and  you  may  betray 
me  to  George  if  you  dare.  I believe  I am  mad,  I am  so 
miserable!” 

“And  all  for  a man  who  doesn’t  appreciate  you,  who 
likes  Annie  better  than  you?” 

“ It  is  not  true,”  said  she  fiercely.  “If  I believed  that, 
she  should  not  stay  in  the  house  a day  longer — I would  not 
rest  until  I got  the  little  hypocrite  turned  out!  But  it  is 
not  true — it  is  not  true ! Now,  will  you  desert  me  at  the 
last  just  when  I am  so  wretched,  and  have  nobody  to  help 
me?” 

“ I will  serve  you  to  the  end,  for  good  or  for  evil,  as  I 
have  always  done,  Lily;  you  know  I live  only  for  that. 
When  you  are  gone,  whether  Mr.  Falconer  marries  you 
or  somebody  else,  my  wretched  life  will  be  no  good  to  me, 
and  I don’t  care  how  soon  I lose  it.  No  one  will  ever 
worship  you  as  I do,  Lily,  nor  for  so  little  thanks.” 

But  she  soothed  him  with  sweet  words  and  kind  eyes. 
She  did  indeed  feel  the  strength  of  his  devotion,  and, 


74  A VAGRANT  WIFE . 

moreover,  he  was  too  useful  an  ally  not  to  be  worth  a few 
kind  speeches. 

So  the  letter  was  sent,  and  the  answer  came — and  the 
secret  was  safe. 

Since  the  regular  hunting  season  had  begun,  Harry’s 
neglect  of  his  wife  had  not  only  grown  more  open  than 
ever,  but  had  been  supplemented  by  sneers  at  her  “ refined 
tastes”  and  “poetry,  prunes,  prism”  manners.  She  could 
not  tell  the  cause  of  this  change,  and  went  on  quietly  in 
her  own  way,  dutifully  caring  for  his  small  comforts,  and 
accepting  his  coarse  snubs  with  the  same  placid  indif- 
ference with  which  she  had  formerly  taken  his  scanty 
thanks. 

When  Christmas  Day  arrived  it  was  spent  just  as  Lilian 
had  predicted.  In  the  morning  the  ladies  went  to  church, 
accompanied  by  Stephen  and  William.  As  there  was  no 
hunting,  and  Lady  Braith waite  had  insisted  upon  the 
grooms  having  a holiday,  the  other  young  men  spent  the 
afternoon  in  the  stable  and  the  biliiard-room,  wrangling 
more  than  usual.  Wilfred  had  already  remonstrated  with 
George  for  teasing  Harry. 

“You  are  always  saying  things  to  put  his  back  up  now. 
What  do  you  do  it  for?”  he  asked. 

“I  don’t  care  a straw  what  he  says!”  cried  Harry,  sul- 
lenly, who  was  flushed  and  excited  long  before  the  after- 
noon was  over.  “ And,  as  for  my  not  being  ‘ a person  of 
authority,’  as  he  calls  it,  I have  as  much  authority  as 
anybody  here.” 

“ Over  whom  or  over  what,  pray?”  said  George,  taunt- 
ingly. “ I don’t  say  you  can’t  manage  a horse  as  well  as 
— an  hostler;  but  show  me  the  man  or  woman  on  whom 
your  word  or  your  opinion  has  the  slightest  effect.” 

“ Well,  I like  that!”  burst  out  Harry,  his  face  twitching 
with  passion.  “ Don’t  I manage  my  own  wife — doesn’t 
she  obey  me,  and  quickly,  too?  Do  you  ever  hear  her  con- 
tradict me  or  differ  from  my  opinion?  Answer  me,  or,  by 
Jove,  I’ll  make  you!” 

“Your  wife  doesn’t  think  your  opinion  worth  differing 
from,  and  she  obeys  you  as  the  shortest  way  of  getting  rid 
of  your  presence.  Everybody  knows  that.” 

“ I say,  George,  do  shut  up !”  broke  in  Wilfred.  “ Can’t 
you  see  you  are  only  irritating  him  against  his  poor  little 
wife,  who  has  quite  enough  to  put  up  with  from  him 
already?  What  on  earth  are  you  driving  at?  Can’t 
make  you  out  lately !” 

“ Don’t  interfere  with  your  infernal  preaching !”  shouted 
Harry.  “ So  my  wife  has  enough  to  put  up  with  from  me 
already!  Very  well,  she’ll  have  more  than  enough,  then, 
before  long,  if  she  doesn’t  get  rid  of  her  confoundedly  cold 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


75 


tragedy-queen  airs,  I can  tell  her!  Ill  show  her  and  you 
too  if  I’m  not  master  of  my  own  wife !”  And  Harry  flung 
away  the  cigar-end  he  had  been  biting,  and  swung  him- 
self out  of  the  yard,  unable  to  control  himself  any  longer. 

Wilfred  turned  to  his  brother. 

“Why  the  dickens  did  you  badger  the  boy  like  that? 
He’ll  only  go  and  let  off  his  ill-temper  on  poor  little  Annie, 
and  perhaps  take  to  proving  his  authority  with  his  fists  or 
his  boots,  the  hulking  bully!” 

“ Well,  the  sooner  he  does,  and  disgusts  her  thoroughly, 
and  makes  her  throw  him  over  altogether,  the  better  for 
her.” 

Wilfred  looked  at  his  brother  keenly. 

“ I say,  George,  you’re  not  playing  square.” 

“Yes,  lam;  you  don't  know  the  game;”  and  the  bar- 
onet lounged  out  of  the  stable-yard  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  but  with  teeth  so  firmly  set  that  he  bit  his  cigar 
in  two. 

Dinner  that  evening  began  quietly  enough.  There  was 
a lull  in  the  hostilities  between  the  young  men,  Harry 
being  sullen,  Wilfred  rather  sleepy,  and  George  giving  all 
his  attention  to  Lilian,  who  was  in  her  most  brilliant 
mood,  talking,  laughing,  teasing  her  eldest  brother,  and 
delighting  him  by  her  archness ; only  one  person  at  the 
table  noticed  how  feverishly  bright  her  eyes  were,  and  the 
nervous  play  of  her  delicate  fingers  when  she  was  not 
speaking.  For  Stephen  never  took  his  eyes  off  her;  he 
drank  scarcely  anything  and  ate  nothing.  Annie  was  pale 
to  the  lips,  and  the  sound  of  Harry’s  voice  made  her 
start.  Only  Lady  Braithwaite  and  William  were  quite 
their  usual  selves. 

“So  this  is  the  last  Christmas  I am  to  spend  as  Miss 
Braithwaite!”  said  Lilian.  “I  wonder  how  I shall  like 
married  life.” 

“ Ask  Annie  how  she  likes  it,”  suggested  George. 

The  young  wife  did  not  look  up;  but  all  could  see  that  a 
shiver  passed  over  her  slight  form.  Harry  made  a restless 
movement  on  his  chair. 

“Confound  her!”  William,  who  sat  next,  heard  him 
mutter;  and  the  boy’s  blood  took  fire.  Wiser  than  George 
or  Wilfred  in  the  interests  of  his  play-fellow,  however,  he 
said  nothing,  and  clinched  his  hands  together  under  the 
table  to  keep  himself  from  punching  his  brother’s  head. 
Such  acts  as  that  had  not  been  unknown  in  past  times  at 
the  Grange  dinner-table,  and  a repetition  of  them  seemed 
perilously  near. 

When  they  at  last  came  into  the  drawing-room  after 
dinner,  after  sitting  an  unusually  long  time  over  their 
wine,  Annie  was  seated— it  almost  seemed  that  she  was 


W 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


hidden— in  the  shadow  of  one  of  the  window-curtains  close 
to  the  conservatory.  Lady  Braith waite  was  happily  doz- 
ing as  usual,  and  Lilian  was  flitting  about  the  room,  more 
animated,  more  restless  than  usual.  She  looked  at  her 
brothers  searchingly  as  they  came  in,  they  were  all  talk- 
ing and  laughing  loudly  and  discordantly.  Stephen  was 
the  only  one  perfectly  sober,  and  he,  white  to  the  lips  and 
silent,  was  more  excited  than  they.  He  watched  Lilian 
with  glistening  eyes  full  of  fear  and  anxiety. 

She  had  scarcely  listened  to  half  a dozen  sentences  of 
her  brothers  when  she  left  them  and  crossed  the  room. 

“Where  are  you  going?  We  want  you  to  play  some- 
thing.” 

“I  think  you  can  amuse  yourselves  better  without  me 
to-night,”  she  said,  with  playful  insolence — “at  least  for 
the  present.  I’ll  come  down  presently,  when  I’ve  finished 
my  letter  to  Aunt  Constantia,  and  give  you  ‘John  Peel.’  ” 

She  calculated  upon  their  having  found  some  other 
means  of  passing  the  time  long  before  they  thought  of  her 
again ; and,  before  they  could  stop  her,  she  had  left  the 
room.  The  little  black  figure  in  the  shadow  of  the  curtain 
sprung  up,  and  was  at  the  door  to  follow  her  example, 
when  Harry’s  voice  thundered: 

“ Annie,  stop  where  you  are!” 

But  for  once  she  took  no  notice,  and  she  was  turning  the 
handle  when  he  sprung  forward  and  stumbled  over  a foot- 
stool. George  laughed.  William  darted  across  the  room 
to  Annie,  and,  holding  the  door  open,  said  : 

“Go,  dear— quick!” 

But  the  power  to  do  so  had  gone  from  the  frightened 
woman’s  limbs.  She  hesitated.  In  that  one  moment 
Harry  had  recovered  himself,  and,  just  as  William  was 
giving  her  a gentle  little  push,  her  husband  reached  them, 
and,  seizing  Annie’s  arm  roughly,  swung  her  round  into 
the  middle  of  the  room  again. 

There  came  a sullen  imprecation  from  the  lips  of  every 
other  man  in  the  room,  and  William,  with  a howl  of  rage, 
felled  his  staggering  brother  like  an  ox  to  the  ground. 
Wilfred,  sober  for  the  moment,  turned  to  the  wife,  who 
had  clasped  her  hands  in  fright  as  she  saw  her  husband 
fall, 

“ Go,  my  child,  go!”  he  said  earnestly.  “ He  isn’t  hurt. 
For  Heaven’s  sake,  go  before  he  gets  up!” 

They  were  all  between  her  and  the  door  now,  swearing, 
fallen  husband  and  the  rest.  She  turned,  fled  through 
the  conservatory,  and  out  into  the  garden;  she  ran,  ran — 
over  the  steeply-sloping  lawn  and  down  into  the  shrub- 
bery at  the  bottom,  too  much  scared  to  stop  herself.  She 
fancied  she  saw  a tall,  black  figure  among  the  trees  in 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


11 


frbnt  of  her,  and  called  “Lilian!” — but  there  was  no  an- 
swer. Then,  having  reached  the  path  that  ran  between 
the  trees  all  around  the  garden  she  leaned  against  a tree 
to  get  back  her  breath.  The  next  minute  she  heard  a 
man’s  footsteps  coming  hurriedly  down  the  walk.  Her 
excited  fancy  told  her  it  was  her  husband  come  to  wreak 
his  disappointed  fury  on  her;  she  tried  to  get  behind  a 
tree,  but  there  was  a wire  fence  which  stopped  her.  She 
crouched  down  on  the  ground  with  her  face  hidden,  until 
the  footsteps  came  quite  close  and  stopped. 

“Don’t,  don’t!  I can’t  bear  any  more!”  she  said, 
hoarsely. 

But  an  arm  was  put  round  her  very  gently,  and  tried  to 
raise  her  from  the  ground. 

“My  darling,  it  is  not  your  brutal  husband.  Don’t  you 
know  who  it  is?” 

“Oh,  George!”  she  cried,  with  a gasp  of  relief,  as  he 
raised  her  from  the  ground. 

She  hung  on  his  arm,  quite  still,  except  for  a convulsive 
trembling  from  time  to  time,  for  a few  minutes,  until  her 
shaken  sense  began  to  return;  then  she  tried  to  stand 
alone. 

“I  am  better  now,  thank  you,  George*  But,  oh,  I was 
so  frightened!” 

“Lie  still  in  my  arms,  my  darling,”  said  he,  his  voice 
shaking. 

He  drew  her  more  closely  to  him,  and  she  could  feel  the 
quick  beating  of  his  heart  against  hers. 

“Let  me  go,  George;  lam  quite  well  now.  You 
frighten  me  too!”  she  said,  piteously,  imploringly,  trying 
to  unlock  his  hands  with  her  slender  fingers. 

He  held  her  more  closely  at  once. 

“I  frighten  you,  Annie!  I would  not  hurt  a hair  of 
your  beautiful  head  for  the  world.  Oh,  my  darling,  my 
darling,  tell  me  you  are  better!  Look  up  at  me,  Annie.”" 

She  raised  her  eyes  timidly  to  his  face,  then  dropped 
them  again,  as  his  passionate  gaze  met  hers. 

“ I am  much  better.  Let  me  go,  George,  please.  Won’t 
you  do  what  I ask  you?  I am  tired ; I want  to  go  in — to 
bed.  Oh,  George,  if  you  are  really  sorry  for  me,  let  me 
go  in,  or  I shall  die  out  here  in  the  cold!” 

“You  shall  not  die;  you  shall  not  be  cold  in  my  arms. 
Do  you  want  to  go  back  to  the  husband  who  is  waiting  to 
bully  you,  perhaps  to  strike  you,  away  from  the  man 
who  loves  you  with  all  his  soul?” 

Annie  gathered  all  her  strength  and  gave  one  ringing 
cry: 

“ Harry!” 

The  bare  branches  of  the  shrubbery- trees  rustled  and 


TO 


a Vagrant  wife. 


cracked  as  a man  sprung  into  the  pathway  and  tore  the 
trembling  woman  from  the  unprepared  George.  She 
looked  up. 

‘ 4 Thank  Heaven ! Colonel  Eichardson !’  ’ 

George  looked  at  him,  too,  dumb  with  surprise.  But 
his  eyes  saw  what  Annie’s  did  not.  From  the  opposite 
side  of  the  path  Lilian’s  handsome  eyes  were  flashing  in 
the  moonlight  in  jealous  anger  at  the  woman  who  lay 
unconscious  in  Colonel  Eichardson’ s arms. 


CHAPTEE  X. 

Careless  of  herself  and  her  own  secret,  in  the  burning 
desire  to  be  revenged  upon  Annie,  Lilian  sped  back  to  the 
house,  not  knowing  that  George  had  seen  her,  and  found 
Harry  with  the  rest  in  the  billiard-room,  still  quarreling 
hotly  about  the  scene  in  the  drawing-room,  of  which  she 
had  not  yet  heard.  Stephen  had  been  forbidden  by  her  to 
leave  the  house  that  night,  and  he  had  been  tortured  with 
anxiety  on  her  account  ever  since  he  saw  Annie  go  into  the 
conservatory,  and  then  noticed  a few  minutes  later  that 
George  had  also  disappeared. 

Lilian  beckoned  Harry  imperiously  out  of  the  room. 

44 1 have  something  important  to  say  to  you.” 

Her  wide,  glistening  eyes,  panting  bosom,  and  resolutely 
subdued  manner,  checked  his  oaths  at  this  interruption. 
He  followed  her  into  the  hall. 

4 4 George  and  Colonel  Eichardson  are  in  the  garden,  in 
the  copse  at  the  bottom,  quarreling  over  your  wife.  I am 
sorry  if  I have  startled  you ; but  I thought  you  had  better 
know.” 

“She  is  the  blight  of  my  life,”  hissed  out  Harry,  with  a 
bitter  imprecation,  trying  to  steady  himself. 

44  Hadn’t  you  better  do  something  more  than  stand  here 
and  abuse  her?”  asked  Lilian,  dryly. 

She  turned  in  disgust  from  the  infuriated  lad,  and  went 
into  the  drawing-room.  He  was  on  the  point  of  following 
her,  when  Annie  came  into  the  hall  from  the  garden  by 
another  door.  There  was  not  a trace  of  color  in  her  face; 
she  crept  slowly,  and  it  seemed  to  her  drunken  husband 
guiltily,  toward  the  staircase. 

44  Stop!”  growled  Harry.  44  You  have  something  to  say 
to  me  now.  Where  have  you  been?” 

“ In  the  garden.” 

“ Whom  were  you  with?” 

44  With  George.” 

44  And  Colonel  Eichardson?” 

44  Yes.” 

She  spoke  wearily,  all  spirit  seemed  to  have  been  taken 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 79 

out  of  hep  by  the  scenes  she  had  gone  through  since  Harry’s 
first  bullying  that  afternoon. 

“ What  were  you  doing  there?  Tell  me  at  once.” 

“ I was  doing  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of;  you  know  that 
perfectly  well.  I will  tell  you  all  about  it  to-morrow.  It 
would  be  of  no  use  to  try  to  make  you  understand  now,” 
said  she,  glancing  up  at  his  flushed  face  with  an  involun- 
tary shudder  of  disgust. 

“You  will  tell  me  now,  whether  I understand  or  not— 
that  is  my  lookout,”  returned  he,  doggedly.  “I’ve  had 
enough  of  your  infernal  airs  of  superiority,  and  I mean  to  i 
show  you  I’m  master.  You  go  about  with  a long  face, 
telling  everybody  you  are  too  good  for  me,  when  all  the 
while ” 

“Take  care  what  you  say!”  she  broke  in,  with  sudden 
spirit. 

“ What  were  you  doing  in  the  garden,  then?”  thundered 
he.  “ What  was  Colonel  Kichardson  there  for?” 

She  did  not  answer.  It  was  not  so  much  to  shield  Lilian 
as  from  fear  of  another  and  worse  quarrel  between  the 
brothers  that  she  was  silent ; and  excitement,  fatigue,  and 
disgust  were  making  her  reckless. 

“Do  you  intend  to  answer  me  or  not?”  asked  Harry, 
laying  a heavy  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

His  touch  made  her  defiant. 

“Not  now.” 

He  raised  his  hand  and  struck  her.  It  was  not  really  a 
severe  blow ; but  it  was  enough  to  throw  the  fragile  little 
creature  to  the  ground. 

“ You  brute,  you  cruel,  cowardly  brute!”  She  cried,  in  a 
low,  sobbing  voice,  looking  up  at  him  with  passionate  dark 
eyes  full  of  hatred,  from  where  she  had  fallen.  “You 
may  have  killed  your  child !” — and  her  head  fell  back  upon 
the  floor  at  his  feet,  while  he  stood  still  in  stupid,  dumb 
bewilderment. 

Only  for  a moment.  The  rough,  drunken  fellow  was 
not  heartless.  When  his  dim,  dazed  eyes  saw  clearly  the 
white,  senseless  face  at  his  feet,  and  his  dull  ears  began  to 
admit  a suggestion  of  her  meaning,  he  flung  himself  down 
beside  her  and  gathered  the  unconscious  woman  into  his 
arms  in  a passion  of  loud,  demonstrative  remorse. 

“I  have  killed  her — I have  killed  her!”  lie  moaned  to 
the  group  of  frightened  people  from  the  drawing-room, 
billiard-room,  and  servants’ -hall  whom  his  cries  brought 
quickly  into  the  hall.  “Heaven  forgive  me,  she  is  dead! 
My  poor,  pretty  little  wife!  Oh,  I am  a brute,  a beast! 
Annie,  Annie!  She  will  never  speak  to  me  again!” — and 
the  slight  frame  he  held  in  his  arms  and  pressed  to  his 


80  A VAGRANT  WIFE. 

convulsed  and  swollen  face  shook  with  the  violence  of  his 
sobs. 

It  was  a genuine  grief  that  prompted  this  outburst ; but 
it  was  the  grief,  not  of  a man,  but  of  a child  who  in  a fit 
of  thoughtless  anger  had  taken  the  life  of  a pet  dog  or 
bird. 

They  took  her  from  him  with  difficulty,  assuring  him 
that  she  had  only  fainted;  and  George  and  Wilfred  led 
him  away,  while  the  women  tried  to  restore  her  to  con- 
sciousness. It  was  a long  time  before  they  succeeded; 
then  Lady  Braithwaite  came  into  the  billiard-room  where 
the  young  men  were. 

“She  must  have  a doctor.  Somebody  must  ride  to 
Beckham  at  once,”  she  said. 

“ I will!”  cried  Harry,  jumping  up. 

“Nonsense;  you  are  not  sober  enough,”  said  George 
curtly.  He  was  bearing  his  share  of  remorse  at  the  result 
of  the  day’s  work. 

But,  before  he  had  reached  the  door.  Harry  passed  him 
with  a rough  push  and  an  oath.  The  shock  had  sobered 
the  lad  for  the  time ; but  he  had  been  drinking  since  to 
drown  his  remorse.  However,  he  was  so  familiar  with  the 
stable  as  to  be  able  almost  by  instinct  to  find  what  he 
wanted ; he  put  saddle  and  bridle  himself  on  to  the  fastest 
horse  there,  and,  once  in  the  saddle,  he  was  all  right,  for, 
drunk  or  sober,  Harry  could  ride. 

He  got  back  before  the  doctor,  and  ran,  all  breathless, 
heated,  and  splashed,  up  the  stairs  to  the  door  of  the  room, 
into  which  Annie  had  been  taken,  knocked  as  softly  as  he 
could,  and  opened  the  door.  She  was  lying  on  the  bed, 
and  his  mother  and  the  housekeeper  were  with  her.  They 
made  gestures  to  him  to  go  back;  but  he  stood  there,  his 
face  all  quivering  with  wistful  anxiety. 

“Only  let  me  just  say  one  word  to  her,”  pleaded  he, 
hoarsely.  He  was  panting  still  from  the  speed  with  which 
he  had  come. 

Annie,  who  had  been  lying  half-unconscious,  opened  her 
eyes  and  turned  to  Lady  Braithwaite  with  a low  cry: 

“ Don’t  let  him  come  near  me!”  she  whispered. 

But  Harry  heard;  and  he  slunk  out  of  the  room,  stunned 
as  no  physical  blow  could  have  stunned  him. 

Annie  lay  ill  for  weeks,  and  in  all  that  time  no  messages, 
no  entreaties  would  induce  her  to  see  her  husband.  The 
only  glimpses  he  got  of  her  were  by  stealth,  when  she  was 
asleep.  For  the  sweet  hope  of  being  a mother,  which  had 
made  her  secretly,  silently  happy  under  all  his  neglect, 
had  now  been  taken  from  her,  and  she  felt  that  it  was  his 
brutality  which  had  snatched  away  the  one  joy  her 
wretched  marriage  had  brought  her. 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


81 


Lady  Braithwaite  tried  to  soothe  her  mind  and  induce 
her  to  forgive  her  husband.  But  the  submissive  daughter- 
in-law  was  strong  in  her  weakness  ; and  no  persuasion  on 
the  part  of  the  elder  lady,  who  had  now  grown  as  kind  as 
she  had  formerly  been  cold,  could  extract  more  than: 

“ Tell  him  I forgive  him;  but  don’t  let  me  see  him.” 

She  was  so  obstinate  in  this  decision  that,  even  when 
she  was  well  enough  to  be  carried  down-stairs,  she  refused 
to  move  from  her  room,  and  the  women  about  her  knew 
that  it  was  the  dread  of  meeting  her  husband  which  kept 
her  a prisoner.  So  that  Lady  Braithwaite  had  to  make 
her  way  to  Harry’s  room  one  night,  and  persuade  him  to 
go  away  for  a time.  It  was  a difficult  task  for  a mother, 
for  the  lad’s  passion  broke  out  vehemently  in  alternate  fits 
against  his  wife  and  of  fondness  for  her.  First  he  said  he 
would  go  to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  if  that  would  do  her  any 
good,  and  the  next  minute  he  swore  she  was  a hard,  un- 
grateful little  vixen,  and  deserved  to  have  her  ears  boxed. 

However,  at  last  Lady  Braithwaite  carried  her  point; 
and  he  agreed  to  go  away  for  a fortnight  to  some  relatives 
of  hers  in  Leicestershire — no  very  great  hardship,  in  truth, 
as  the  hunting-season  was  not  yet  over. 

So  one  morning,  before  Annie  was  awake,  he  stole  into 
her  room  with  elaborately  clumsy  movements  expressive 
of  his  intention  not  to  make  the  least  noise,  all  ready  for 
his  journey,  except  that  he  was  without  his  boots — he  had 
left  them  outside  the  door  for  fear  of  their  creaking.  He 
stood  looking  at  her  wistfully  for  a few  minutes,  and  then 
crept  close  to  the  bed  and  softly  kissed  her.  She  did  not 
move  or  wake.  Then  he  took  out  of  his  pocket  a letter, 
directed,  rather  quaintly,  to  “ Mrs.  Harold  Braithwaite, 
Garstone  Grange,  Lancashire.”  He  had  first  written  out- 
side it  simply,  “ Annie;”  but  then  it  had  occurred  to  him 
that  the  dignity  of  the  offended  husband  required  the  full 
title.  This  letter  he  tucked  gently  under  her  shoulder,  as 
he  did  not  want  anybody  else  to  see  it.  Then,  with  an- 
other kiss  and  the  murmur,  “ She  doesn’t  deserve  it— I’m 
blessed  if  she  does!”  he  left  the  room. 

When  he  got  outside  the  door,  he  hesitated  a moment. 

“Wonder  if  it  would  hurt  her  to  wake  her?  She  might 
just  say  good-bye.  Oh,  well,  it  is  only  for  a fortnight!” 
and  he  put  on  his  boots  and  went  down-stairs. 

Only  a fortnight— so  he  thought! 

When  Annie  woke  that  morning,  she  found  the  letter. 
It  was  badly  written,  strangely  spelled,  not  punctuated  at 
all,  an  authentic  uninspired  document  evidently : 

“ My  dear  Annie, — I ought  not  to  have  to  write  to  you 
at  all  as  a husband  ought  to  see  his  wife  whenever  he  likes 


82 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


and  she  ought  to  think  it  a compliment  but  you  are  ill 
though  I believe  you  are  nearly  well  now  and  I say  no 
more.  You  don’t  know  how  sorry  I am  about  it  all  or  you 
would  be  kinder  for  I can  not  ride  or  sleep  or  do  anything 
hardly  for  thinking  of  you.  Then  all  say  I am  silly  to  go 
on  like  this  just  for  a woman  and  I dare  say  they  are  right 
in  the  abstrackt  but  they  don’t  know  how  much  a man  feels 
this  sort  of  tretment  until  they  are  married  themselves 
which  I hope  they  won’t  be  till  they  are  older  than  you 
and  me  for  a man  should  not  marry  until  five-and- twenty 
I am  sure  of  that  now.  I do  not  say  that  to  reproach  you 
for  it  was  not  your  fault,  and  it  is  nearly  as  bad  for  you  as 
for  me  and  it  will  all  be  different  in  a fortnight  when 
I come  back  for  I will  be  very  gentle  and  kind  to  you  and 
I want  you  to  promise  that  you  won’t  say  any  more  about 
it  nor  throw  it  in  my  face  afterward  when  you  are 
angry  with  me  and  that  you  won’t  always  be  so  dredfully 
quiet  before  people  as  if  you  were  afraid  of  me.  I know 
I am  not  good  enough  for  you  and  everybody  is  always 
telling  me  so  and  it  is  not  at  all  a pleasant  thing  for  a fel- 
low and  I think  if  you  were  a little  less  good  it  would  be 
better.  I would  as  soon  you  gave  me  a slap  in  the  face 
than  obey  me  in  the  way  you  do  like  a statue  or  a martyr 
which  you  are  not.  Don’t  think  I want  to  say  hard  things 
to  you  for  everybody  will  tell  you  how  wretched  I have 
been  and  I will  say  a lot  more  to  you  when  I see  you  but 
now  as  the  dog-cart  is  round  and  I have  not  had  my  break- 
fast I will  say  good-by  and  if  you  are  not  awake  I will  put 
it  under  your  pillow.  Your  affectionate  husband, 

“ Harry.” 

As  Annie  read  this  letter,  it  struck  her  for  the  first  time 
that  she  had  not  appreciated  the  extreme  youthfulness  of 
her  husband,  who  was  much  younger  at  twenty  than  she 
was  on  the  eve  of  being  nineteen.  The  letter,  in  its  boyish 
simplicity,  amused  and  touched  her ; however,  it  did  not 
alter,  but  rather  strengthened,  a resolution  which  she  had 
been  busily  forming  and  developing  during  those  quiet 
weeks  of  illness. 

On  the  day  following  Harry’s  departure  for  Leicester- 
shire she  was  led  down  stairs,  being  strong  enough  to  walk 
now,  and  enthroned  in  the  drawing-room  as  a special  pet 
and  sovereign.  She  was  rather  shy  with  George  at  first ; 
but  he  knew  how  to  be  so  quietly  kind  as  to  put  her  at  her 
ease.  William  danced  wild  hornpipes  of  joy  round  her, 
until  they  threatened  to  turn  him  out  for  being  noisy,  upon 
which  he  instantly  subsided,  and  fell  into  the  opposite  ex- 
treme of  speaking  only  in  a thick  whisper.  All  the  rest 
were  kind;  Lilian  rather  ashamed  of  herself,  but  grateful 


a VAGRANT  WIFE.  63 

to  Annie  for  not  having  mentioned  her  name  to  indiscreet 
Harry  on  that  eventful  Christmas  night. 

George,  after  another  stormy  interview  with  his  sister  in 
the  library,  in  which  she  had  been  in  a position  to  give 
him  back  taunt  for  taunt,  wisely  agreed  to  bury  all  allu- 
sion to  that  night’s  events,  and  merely  used  the  power 
they  gave  him  to  insist  on  her  marrying  Mr.  Falconer 
sooner  than  she  wished.  It  had  been  a miserable  business, 
that  moonlit  scene  in  the  copse,  requiring  hushing  up  all 
round,  but  especially  on  Lilian’s  account;  so  her  eldest 
brother  and  Colonel  Richardson  had  had  to  content  them- 
selves with  an  exchange  of  hard  words,  and  the  latter  had 
returned  to  the  station  and  the  former  to  the  house,  each 
with  an  uneasy  consciousness  that  he  had  never  appeared 
to  less  advantage  in  his  own  eyes  in  his  life. 

By  the  time  Annie  came  down-stairs  for  the  first  time, 
the  preparations  for  Lilian’s  wedding  were  already  in 
progress;  and,  when  Annie  suggested  to  Lady  Braithwaite 
that  she  thought  she  wanted  change  of  air,  the  latter  of- 
fered to  take  her  away  to  the  seaside  as  soon  as  Lilian  was 
married,  saying  she  could  not  leave  home  before.  But 
Annie  thanked  her,  and  said  she  would  be  well  enough 
to  travel  by  herself  in  a day  or  two;  and  she  wanted  to  go 
as  soon  as  she  could  to  her  aunt’s,  she  thought. 

When  George  heard  of  it,  he  begged  his  sister-in-law  to 
wait  until  after  the  wedding,  when  he  himself  would  take 
both  her  and  his  mother  to  Southport.  She  thanked  him, 
but  without  accepting  or  declining  the  proposal. 

On  the  very  day  before  Harry's  expected  return,  how- 
ever, George  having  left  home  early  in  the  morning  for  a 
day’s  hunting,  Annie  came  into  the  morning- room — where 
Lady  Braithwaite  and  her  daughter  were  inspecting  some 
newly  arrived  wedding  presents — dressed  for  a journey. 

“ I knew  the  obstinate  little  thing  would  go  off  by  her- 
self, after  all,”  said  Lilian,  rather  glad  of  her  sister-in- 
law’s  resolution. 

The  elder  lady  was  completely  taken  by  surprise. 

“ What  about  your  luggage?  You  can’t  go  away  with- 
out any,”  she  said. 

“ I packed  it  all  last  night,  and  ordered  a cab  from  Beck- 
ham yesterday— at  least,  it  was  I who  sent  the  order.  The 
cab  is  at  the  door  now.” 

“ But  you  can’t  go  off  in  that  way;  people  would  think 
it  so  strange!  Wait  until  after  dinner,  and  I will  take 
you.” 

“ Thank  you.  William  is  going  to  drive  me.  The  dog- 
cart will  be  round  in  a minute.” 

This  diverted  Lady  Braithwaite’s  thoughts. 

“That  horrid  dog-cart!  You  are  going  to  let  him  take 


84  a vagrant  wife. 

you  in  that!  You  will  certainly  be  thrown  out  and 
killed !” 

“I  am  not  afraid,”  said  Annie,  smiling;  and,  hearing 
William’s  voice  calling  her  from  the  hall,  she  bade  them 
both  good-bye  and  left  the  room,  they  following  her  to  the 
front  door. 

Her  manner  was  very  quiet  and  composed ; but  Lilian 
was  not  easily  deceived.  She  turned  to  her  mother  as  the 
dog-cart  disappeared  down  the  drive. 

44  She  does  not  mean  to  come  back,  mamma,”  she  said, 
in  a low  voice.  And  one  of  the  servants  standing  at  the 
back  overheard  and  nodded  to  another,  whispering: 

4 4 1 told  you  so.” 

William  was  in  high  spirits  at  driving  his  dear  Annie 
again;  but  she  was  very  silent,  or  talked  without  her 
usual  brightness.  He  said  nothing;  but  he  thought  to 
himself,  44  If  she  is  so  sorry  to  go  away,  she  will  be  back 
all  the  sooner,”  and,  when,  at  the  station,  he  had  taken 
her  ticket — first-class,  in  spite  of  her  directions — and  found 
her  a comfortable  carriage,  he  got  in  and  flung  his  arms 
around  her  affectionately,  and  told  her  he  should  count 
the  days  till  she  came  back.  Then,  to  his  sudden  dismay, 
she  burst  into  tears.  The  boy’s  face  fell. 

44  Annie,  what  is  the  matter?”  Then,  in  a mysterious 
voice,  “ You  haven’t  cut  away  from  Harry,  have  you?” 

Annie  nodded. 

44  Don’t  tell  any  one  at  the  Grange  yet,  William,  there’s 
a dear,  good  old  boy.  I will  write  and  explain.  But  I’m 
glad  you  know.  I couldn’t  bear  it  any  longer.  It  was 
ruining  both  our  lives;  we  never  could  have  agreed,  and 
we  shall  both  be  happier  apart.” 

44  But  where  are  you  going?  What  are  you  going  to  do? 
You  are  not  going  to  be  a governess  again,  are  you?” 

44 1 don’t  know.  I am  not  sure  of  anything  yet,  only  of 
this— that  I shall  be  all  right,  and  nobody  need  be  anxious 
about  me.” 

“But  I shall  be.  Oh,  Annie,  don’t  go!  Let  me  go  with 
you  and  see  you  safely  to  your  aunt’s.  I have  some  money 
with  me— George  gave  me  my  allowance  only  this  morn- 
ing. Do  let  me  go!” 

“No,  no;  you  must  not  think  of  such  a thing,”  said 
Annie,  almost  laughing. 

4 4 And  you  were  going  to  leave  me  just  like  the  rest, 
without  a word  about  your  not  coming  back!  Oh,  Annie, 
when  we’ve  been  such  chums!” 

The  boy’s  reproachful  face  overcame  Annie. 

‘‘Look  here— I’ll  tell  you  what  I haven’t  told  anybody 
else,  and  don’t  mean  to  tell  anybody  else,”  said  she, 
affectionately;  and  she  whispered  something  into  his  ear. 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


85 


u0h,  Annie!” 

“Mind  you  are  not  to  tell  any  one— ever.  I have  not 
even  made  you  promise,  you  see.” 

“You  needn’t  be  afraid.  Your  brother-in-law  is  a 
gentleman,”  said  William,  gravely. 

The  express  by  which  she  was  going  stopped  twenty 
minutes  at  Beckham;  but  now  the  guard  was  crying, 
“Take  your  seats!”— and  William  had  to  jump  out.  He 
got  up  on  the  step  outside  to  see  as  much  as  he  could  of  her  • 
at  the  very  last,  and  said,  in  an  important  whisper: 

“ But  I sha’n’t  know  where  to  write  to  you.” 

“ I will  let  you  know.  And  mind,  William,  you  are  not 
to  drink — at  least,  not  like  the  others!” 

“ All  right;  I won’t.  I may  smoke,  mayn’t  I?” 

“Oh,  yes,  you  may  smoke,  and  you  may  ride  and  fish 
and  shoot  as  much  as  you  like ; only  do  try  to  read  a little, 
and  don’t  swear  quite  so  much  as  Wilfred  or  Harry.” 

“All  right.  You  don’t  mind  my  saying  a big,  big  D 

when  I get  a bad  fall  just  before  the  finish?” 

“ N — o,  I’ll  pass  that.  Now  get  down ; the  train  is  going, 
and  you  will  be  hurt.” 

William  jumped  off,  but  dashed  down  the  platform  be- 
side the  moving  train  a minute  after,  panting  out,  as  he 
threw  his  purse  into  the  carriage : 

“You  must  take  it;  I’ve  taken  out  all  I want,  and  you 
may  want  it.  You  know  I took  first-class  when  you  said 
second.  Write.” 

The  last  impression  she  carried  away  of  her  life  at  the 
Grange  was  the  memory  of  the  big,  handsome  boy  stand- 
ing looking  at  the  disappearing  train,  with  an  expression 
on  his  face  which  threatened  tears  when  he  should  be  out 
of  sight  of  the  busy  crowd  around  him. 

When  Annie’s  own  tears  had  stopped,  she  picked  up  the 
boy’s  purse,  which  had  fallen  as  he  flung  it,  on  to  the  op- 
posite seat.  It  was  a handsome  purse  and  pocket-book, 
given  him  by  his  mother;  but  it  had  suffered  from  experi- 
ments made  upon  it  with  the  various  articles  in  his  tool- 
chest.  He  had  begun  a diary  in  it  when  it  was  new,  which 
had  dwindled  down  to  an  occasional  note  of  his  transac- 
tions in  rabbits.  There  were  other  boyish  documents,  a 
cutting  from  the  Field,  et  ccetera , and  there  was  more  than 
five  pounds  in  money,  a broken  scarf-pin,  and  two  used 
foreign  postage-stamps.  She  had  no  scruples  about  ac- 
cepting the  money,  which  was  a welcome  addition  to  her 
not  very  large  store,  and  the  pocket-book  she  put  in  her 
desk  later  as  a cherished  souvenir  of  the  being  she  cared 
most  about  in  the  world.  The  boy’s  high  spirits  and 
frank  pleasure  in  hers  had  won  her  from  the  first,  and  the 
only  things  she  regretted  in  her  life  at  the  Grange  were 


a vagrant  wife. 


the  walks  and  drives  and  barbaric  sports  of  ratting  and 
mouse-hunting  with  him  as  a companion. 

When  she  got  to  London,  she  went  straight  to  a street 
she  had  been  told  of,  north  of  Oxford  Street,  well  known 
for  cheap  lodgings.  She  took  a furnished  bedroom  at  the 
top  of  a dingy  house,  and  then  next  day  she  returned  to 
Euston  Station  to  fetch  her  luggage,  which  she  had  left  at 
the  parcels-office  there,  for  fear  of  the  extra  expense  of 
driving  about  in  a cab  with  it,  in  case  she  should  have  any 
difficulty  in  finding  a suitable  lodging.  She  was  on  foot; 
and,  as  she  entered  the  station,  a hansom  passed  her  with 
a young  man  in  it  who  quite  startled  her  by  his  likeness  td 
Harry.  The  resemblance  was  so  strong  that  she  stopped, 
half  inclined  to  turn  back  and  walk  about  for  a little 
while,  in  case  it  should  be,  indeed,  her  husband,  so  that 
he  might  have  left  the  station  before  she  got  there.  But 
then  she  reasoned  with  herself  that  Harry  was  in 
Leicestershire,  and  was  expected  at  Garstone  to-day, 
even  if  he  were  not  already  there;  so  that  she  decided  to 
go  boldly  on.  Another  feeling  impelled  her  forward — an 
unacknowledged  hankering  for  a last  sight  of  her  hus- 
band, or  even  for  a look  at  the  man  who  so  strongly  re- 
sembled  him. 

Annie  did  not  love  her  husband — she  had  never  really 
loved  him;  and  since  Christmas  she  almost  hated  him. 
But,  now  that  she  had  left  him  forever,  and  that  too  with- 
out any  farewell,  a natural  inconsistency  prompted  her  to 
try  to  steal  a last  look  at  the  handsome  lad  who  had  been 
her  lord  and  master. 

So  she  went  into  the  station,  and,  leaving  her  luggage  for 
future  consideration,  looked  about  cautiously  for  the  man 
she  had  seen  in  the  hansom.  He  was  not  to  be  seen  about 
the  ticket  offices,  and,  growing  bolder,  she  slipped  in  and 
out  among  the  groups  of  people  on  the  platform.  A train 
was  about  to  start  for  the  North.  Still  with  caution,  but 
attracted  in  spite  of  herself  toward  that  train,  which,  as 
she  knew,  would  stop  at  Beckham,  Annie  advanced  until 
she  was  nearly  opposite  to  the  doors  of  the  refreshment- 
room.  They  opened,  and  a young  man  came  out.  Annie 
stopped,  with  the  color  rushing  to  her  face;  for  it  was 
Harry.  He  looked  so  handsome  in  his  light  traveling-suit, 
with  liis  overcoat  hanging  loosely  over  his  arm,  that  she 
felt  quite  proud  of  him,  and  stood  there  with  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  him,  half  hoping  that  he  would  turn  and  see  her. 

But  he  did  not,  for  he  was  gazing  eagerly  in  the  opposite 
direction— so  eagerly  that  he  risked  being  left  behind,  as  the 
carriage  doors  were  being  closed.  Annie’s  eyes  followed 
his,  and  found  that  the  object  of  his  evident  admiration 
was  a showily  dressed  woman  with  bold  eyes  and  impos- 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


87 


sibly  yellow  hair,  who  was  tottering  along  the  platform  in 
boots  which  had  long  slender  pegs  instead  of  heels.. 

With  a sigh  of  disgust,  Annie  turned  away.  It  was 
years  before  she  saw  her  husband  again. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

The  first  thing  Annie  had  done  on  arriving  at  her  Lon- 
don lodging  had  been  to  takeoff  her  wedding-ringand  hide 
it  away  in  a corner  of  her  desk.  She  had  given  to  the 
landlady  the  name  “ Miss  Langton,”  which  she  had  re- 
solved to  adopt  for  the  future.  These  were  her  first  steps 
toward  cutting  herself  off  from  her  past  life;  the  next  was 
a bolder  one. 

During  these  long  weeks  when  she  had  lain  ill  in  bed, 
she  had  pondered  in  her  mind  how  she  could  live  when  she 
had  left  her  husband,  as  she  at  the  very  beginning  of  her 
illness  determined  to  do.  One  trial  of  the  life  of  a govern- 
ess had  been  enough  for  her,  and  she  could  not  easily  have 
re-entered  it  except  in  some  sort  under  false  pretenses. 
Besides,  now  that  she  had  thrown  herself  upon  her  own  re- 
sources, and  stood  once  more  alone  in  the  world,  her  old 
ambitions  had  awakened  within  her,  the  old  spirit  cried 
out,  the  vague  but  strong  consciousness  of  untried  powers 
turned  her  thoughts  to  a career  of  art.  One  form  of  art 
alone  seemed  open  to  her — the  stage.  All  that  she  knew, 
or  almost  all  that  she  knew,  of  a theatrical  life  was  dis- 
tasteful to  her,  and  her  instinct  would  have  led  her  to  give 
herself  up  to  writing.  But  she  had  already  tried  that, 
knew  how  hard  it  was  even  to  get  a hearing  from  the  read- 
ing public,  and  cast  aside  the  thought  of  literary  distinc- 
tion as  taking  too  long  to  win. 

Of  course,  knowing  nothing  about  the  stage,  she  fell  into 
the  common  error  of  thinking  that  talent  made  itself  more 
quickly  manifest  there,  and  utterly  ignored  the  fact  that 
it  is  about  as  easy  for  a woman  of  high  principles,  with- 
out either  money  or  interest,  to  attain  a good  position  in  a 
London  theater  as  for  a drummer-boy  to  become  a general. 
She  knew  she  would  have  to  wait  and  to  work  before  she 
found  her  way  to  the  front  rank ; but  how  long  that  weary 
waiting  would  last,  or  how  dull  that  work  would  be,  she 
had  not  the  least  idea.  She  had  unbounded  faith  in  her- 
self, she  had  energy,  a little  patience,  and  she  believed 
herself  to  have  talent,  and  her  heart  beat  fast  with  the 
thought  that  she  was  now  free  to  measure  her  strength 
against  the  world. 

As  for  the  horror  of  her  husband  and  the  rest  of  the 
Braith waites,  if  they  ever  came  to  hear  of  the  step  she 
had  taken,  why,  she  did  not  care  for  their  opinion,  and 


88 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


their  disgust  could  not  humiliate  her.  Besides,  the  fact  of 
her  having  become  an  actress  would  effectually  cut  her  off 
from  them  forever  and  prevent  their  trying  to  bring  her 
back  to  them,  a possibility  too  dreadful  to  be  considered 
calmly. 

For,  now  that  they  were  over,  yet  still  fresh  in  her  mind, 
the  trials  she  had  suffered  during  those  few  months  of 
married  life  seemed,  in  these  first  days  of  relief  from 
them,  even  greater  than  they  had  really  been.  Harry 
seemed  more  brutal,  more  ignorant,  more  dissipated,  Lady 
Braith  waite  and  Lilian  more  coldly  insolent,  George  more 
selfish,  Wilfred  more  drunken,  Stephen  more  unkind;  so 
that  the  stage  held  out  attractions  for  her  in  the  social  ob- 
livion it  involved  which  it  would  have  been  far  from  hav- 
ing in  her  eyes  in  other  circumstances. 

Not  once  did  the  thought  occur  to  Annie  that  she  was 
doing  wrong  in  thus  leaving  her  husband  without  consult- 
ing him.  From  the  first  she  had  been  too  obviously  his 
superior  in  judgment  t o set  any  value  on  his  opinion,  and 
now  she  only  thought  she  was  ridding  him  as  well  as  her- 
self of  an  intolerable  burden  in  the  simplest  manner.  She 
had  tried  hard  to  do  her  duty  as  a wife,  and  had  succeeded 
only  in  exasperating  him  against  her  and  in  unwittingly 
irritating  him  to  more  than  his  customary  excesses.  In 
leaving  him  free  she  thought  she  was  rendering  him  the 
highest  service  in  her  power ; and  in  freeing  herself  she 
felt,  with  a throb  of  joy,  that  she  was  once  more  able  to 
indulge  in  her  old  dreams  of  ambition  and  success. 

But  in  this  argument  with  herself  she  forgot  one  thing— 
namely,  that  she  had  not  left  Harry  free.  This  forgetful- 
ness was  the  natural  result  of  the  effacement  she  had  suf- 
fered at  Garstone  Grange  which  had  caused  her  to  depre- 
ciate her  duties  as  they  had  depreciated  her  rights.  It 
did  not  occur  to  her  to  think  that  she,  morally  the  stronger 
of  the  two,  was  aban  doning  her  husband,  in  all  the  first 
heat  of  a singularly  wild  and  passionate  nature,  to  a life 
in  which  the  innocent  indulgence  of  the  affections  was  no 
longer  possible;  for  she  looked  upon  him  as  a brute  in- 
capable of  any  but  the  lowest  forms  of  love.  As  for  her- 
self, she  did  not  think  herself  in  danger— she  was  of  cooler 
temperament  and  higher  intellect;  her  imagination  took 
fire  much  more  readily  than  her  heart;  she  had  thrown 
herself  into  the  prospect  of  a brilliant  career,  and  the  idea 
of  leading  a loveless  life  had  few  terrors  for  her  at  first, 
except  in  rare  moments  of  depression. 

But,  though  the  future  was  full  of  charm  for  her,  the 
present  was  not  without  great  difficulties.  How  was  she 
tp  enter  upon  her  new  life?  She  remembered  that  some 
years  ago,  in  the  old  days  when  her  father  was  alive,  when 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


89 


she  was  still  a school  girl  and  theatrical  matters  had  the 
charm  of  mystery,  she  had  been  with  her  father  on  one 
occasion  when  he  had  met  and  introduced  to  her  an  ac- 
quaintance of  his  who  was  a manager  and  an  actor  too, 
and  whom  she  had  wondered  to  find  so  exceedingly  silent 
and  grave  when  she  remembered  how  he  had  made  her 
laugh  upon  the  stage.  She  now  hit  upon  the  bold  measure 
of  writing  to  him,  and  asking  if  he  would  see  her;  but  a 
week  passed,  and  her  letter  received  no  answer.  She 
wrote  again  to  his  theater,  and  this  time  inclosed  a 
stamped  directed  envelope,  with  an  apology  for  doing  so, 
and  an  earnest  request  for  five  minutes  of  his  time.  She 
received  in  reply  a hasty  note  naming  a day  and  hour 
when  he  could  see  her ; and,  more  excited  than  she  had 
ever  been  in  her  life  before,  she  arrived  at  the  theater  at 
the  appointed  time.  She  had  to  wait  a long,  weary  time, 
very  much  ashamed  of  herself,  very  much  afraid  her  ap- 
plication would  be  in  vain,  very  much  wishing  herself 
out  of  the  group  of  shabby  men — whom  she  mistook  for 
actors— with  whom  she  was  waiting,  when  at  last  the 
manager  came.  As  his  eyes  fell  on  her,  she  stepped  for- 
ward, holding  his  letter  and  giving  her  maiden  name. 

As  she  had  expected,  he  had  long  since  forgotten  her; 
but  he  asked  her  to  follow  him  up-stairs,  and  gave  her  a 
courteous  hearing  at  the  back  of  the  dress-circle.  After 
some  difficulty,  he  remembered,  or  said  he  remembered, 
their  former  meeting.  He  strongly  advised  her  not  to  go 
on  the  stage,  telling  her  that  even  great  talent  did  not 
always  command  success,  that  it  was  a hard  life,  full  of 
disappointments.  Finding  her  resolution  still  firm,  and 
for  the  sake  of  her  father,  with  whom  he  had  at  one  time 
been  intimate,  he  agreed  to  let  her  make  a very  modest 
first  appearance  at  his  theater  as  a silent  ‘ 4 guest.  ’ ’ He  did 
not  much  approve  of  lady  amateurs,  even  in  this  humble 
capacity,  but  the  girl  was  much  in  earnest,  her  pretty 
pleading  was  so  touching,  that  he  made  this  small  conces- 
sion, scarcely  doubting  that,  if  she  went  through  all  the 
rehearsals,  after  a few  nights  of  a suffocating  dressing- 
room  and  a draughty  stage,  she  would  appear  no  more, 
cured  of  her  unfortunate  whim. 

The  rehearsals  were  a hard  trial,  certainly.  To  stand 
about  for  three  or  four  hours  on  a dark  stage  in  the  com- 
pany of  two  or  three  more  “ladies  ” who  would  have  been 
scarcely  refined  enough  for  her  to  engage  as  maids,  and 
then  sometimes  to  be  dismissed  without  having  to  go 
through  her  simple  duty  of  walking  across  at  the  back  of 
the  scene  with  a shabby  man  who  by  day  filled  the 
position  of  a bill-sticker,  was  not  work  too  exciting  to  leave 
time  for  some  unpleasant  reflection.  When  the  piece  came 


90 


T'A~  VAGRANT  WIFE . 


out  things  were  a little  better.  Of  the  three  girls  who 
dressed  with  her  in  a large,  bare  room  which  seemed  miles 
away,  up  at  the  top  of  the  theater,  two  were  illiterate  but 
inoffensive,  and  the  third  proved  to  be  one  of  the  merriest 
little  creatures  whoever  wished  to  be  a great  actress  when 
nature  intended  her  for  a good  washer- woman. 

Going  home  alone  at  night  frightened  her  dreadfully, 
and  she  never  got  quite  used  to  it*  Luckily  there  were 
omnibuses  which  took  her  nearly  the  whole  way ; but  the 
short  distance  she  had  to  walk  before  she  caught  one  was 
a nightly  agony,  though  nobody  ever  took  any  notice  of 
the  insignificant  muffled  up  figure. 

The  piece  was  a failure,  and  did  not  run  long;  but  she 
did  duty  again  in  the  same  humble  capacity  with  the  same 
companions  in4he  comedy  which  followed,  hoping  for  an 
opening  to  something  more  dignified  and  better  calculated 
to  show  off  her  histrionic  powers,  if  she  possessed  any. 
The  opening  came.  It  was  a very  small  one,  merely  the 
opportunity  of  saying  one  line  as  a maid-servant;  but  the 
minutes  before  hearing  her  own  voice  for  the  first  time  in 
public  were  fraught  with  a terribly  intense  excitement 
which  no  important  part  in  after-times  ever  called  up  in 
her  with  the  same  strength. 

It  was  a few  nights  after  this  ordeal  that  on  returning 
from  the  theater  she  was  seized,  for  the  first  time  since 
leaving  Garstone,  with  a longing  to  hear  what  was  going 
on  there— how  her  departure  had  been  taken,  and  how 
William  passed  his  time  without  her.  So  she  wrote  to  her 
brother-in-law,  giving,  as  the  address  for  him  to  write 
to,  that  of  a stationer  whose  shop  she  passed  on  her  way 
to  and  from  the  theater.  It  was  not  that  she  mistrusted 
the  boy’s  word,  or  even  his  carefulness;  but  she  did  not 
wish  to  get  him  into  trouble,  as  would  certainly  have  been 
the  case  if  any  of  the  rest  suspected  him  of  knowing  her 
real  address. 

In  answer  she  got  the  following  letter: 

“My  dear  Annie,— I thought  you  were  never  going  to 
keep  your  promise  and  write  to  me  after  all,  and  you 
haven’ t told  me  much  now  you  do  write  to  me.  For  I want 
to  know  ever  so  much  more  than  you  say.  You  need  not 
be  afraid  of  anybody  seeing  your  letter.  For  when  I got 
it  at  Moss’  I took  it  straight  back  and  down  to  the  willow- 
pond.  I read  it,  and  fastened  it  under  the  lining  of  my 
hunting-cap.  So  its  all  rigt.  There  was  a shindy  when 
they  new  you  were  gone.  George  went  to  your  aunt  and 
first  he  scolded  mother  and  Lil  and  said  they  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  themselves  and  your  aunt  dident  know  where 
you  were.  And  Harry  you  should  have  seen  him  go  on. 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


91 


You  would  have  thought  he  was  a good  husbend  and  you 
a bad  wife  if  you  heard  him.  He  had  been  to  London  and 
sold  his  hunting-wach  and  bougfc  you  a dimand  ring  which 
I think  you  would  have  liked  but  of  course  you  were  write 
to  go  away  and  I said  so  and  he  punched  my  head  and  I 
punched  him  back.  So  he  dident  get  much  good  by  his 
interferring  with  me.  They  thought  I new  where  you 
were  and  I said  if  they  thought  I did  they  migt  just  try 
to  make  me  say  thats  all.  So  they  lissened  to  reason  and 
Harry  drinks  more  than  ever  he  is  as  bad  as  Wilfred  evry 
bit.  And  he  is  allways  hanging  about  Green’s  forge  now. 
Susan  Greens  come  back  a pretty  thing  for  a man  married 
like  he  is  now.  I only  tell  you  this  becos  I think  you  ought 
to  know  being  his  wife  which  is  a great  pity.  They  none 
of  them  know  you  will  never  come  back  except  Lil  who 
says  you  wont  and  that  makes  George  very  angry  and  one 
evening  made  Harry  cry  like  a great  baby  insted  of  trying 
to  find  you.  The  place  is  beesly  now  you  are  gone  and  if 
I wasent  going  to  uncle  Geralds  in  Ireland  I thing  I should 
have  to  come  an^i  dig  you  out. 

“ Your  afecsionate  brother-in-law, 

“ William  Fitzpatrick  Braithwaite. 

“ P.S. — If  you  could  see  the  black  and  white  rabit  now  I 
think  you  would  laugh  for  his  legs  are  alright  but  so  stiff 
that  he  hops  bout  as  if  he  was  made  of  wood.  Jo  bit  the 
pups  tail  off  a fortnigt  ago.” 

This  letter  made  Annie  thoughtful.  The  Rubicon  was 
passed  now ; she  could  not  have  gone  back,  even  had  she 
wished  to  do  so,  with  what  they  would  have  considered 
the  contamination  of  the  stage  upon  her.  But  what 
William  said  about  Harry  caused  her  to  ask  herself  for 
the  first  time  whether  she  had  not  done  him  wrong, 
whether  she  ought  not  still  to  have  stayed  and  continued 
coldly  to  fulfill  her  wifely  duty  to  the  letter,  whether  there 
had  not  been  more  selfishness  than  self-sacrifice  in  giving 
him  back  his  liberty.  She  felt  not  one  whit  more  of  affec- 
tion for  the  drunken  lad  who  had  become  the  ardent  ad- 
mirer of  the  blacksmith’s  daughter,  but  this  last  fact  was 
too  significant  not  to  awaken  her  self-reproach.  She  felt 
at  the  bottom  of  her  heart  an  unacknowledged  gladness 
that  it  was  no  longer  in  her  power  to  go  back,  and  in  the 
cares  of  her  present  life  she  soon  forgot  again  those  of  her 
past. 

For  the  few  shillings  she  received  for  her  work  at  the 
theater  were  not  enough  to  pay  her  modest  expenses  for 
food  and  lodging  without  her  drawing  upon  the  small  sum 
she  had  brought  with  her  from  the  Grange;  William’s 
money  she  had  resolved  not  to  touch  except  in  case  of  ufc 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


92 

most  need.  So  she  tried  her  strength  by  living  too  simply  , 
while  she  passed,  in  spite  of  herself,  at  the  theater  as  a 
“rich  ” lady,  who  “ came  behind  ” for  a freak.  She  had 
clothing  enough  to  last  for  some  time,  and  before  the  end 
of  the  summer  she  was  lucky  in  being  able  to  sell  a short 
story  ; and  then,  after  being  for  a few  weeks  out  of  work 
and  in  debt,  and  almost  in  danger  of  absolute  want,  she 
got  an  engagement  at  a salary  which  was  just  enough  to 
live  upon,  but  with  no  chance  of  more  than  a few  lines  to 
speak. 

And  this  was  her  life,  with  now  and  then  a hope  of  some- 
thing better  to  do,  followed  alwaysjby  disappointment  and 
sometimes  by  despair  for  nearly  tliree  years,  at  the  end  of 
which  time  she  was  still  appearing  at  a fashionable  comedy 
theater,  where  she  had  been  figuring  in  the  programmes 
for  some  months  on  the  last  line  of  the  list  of  characters, 
thus — “ Maid,  Miss  Langton.’  ’ 

And  the  brilliant  future  she  had  pictured  once  for  her- 
self seemed  further  away  than  ever.  For  she  had  by  this 
time  mastered  some  of  the  secrets  of  success  on  the  stage. 
The  highest  success,  she  still  knew,  fell  only  to  the  highest 
talent;  and  this  belief,  which  was  directly  against  the 
creed  of  most  of  her  companions,  she  held  to  the  end.  It 
was  all  luck,  they  said.  It  was  chiefly  luck,  she  thought 
too— the  luck  of  being  somebody’s  son  or  somebody’s 
daughter,  of  having  good  looks  and  bad  principles  or 
wealthy  friends,  of  being  by  chance  on  the  right  spot  at  the 
right  time;  and  luck  had  been  against  her. 

Disappointment,  too,  and  weary,  weary  waiting  had 
taken  the  bloom  off  her  beauty,  which  was  of  a type  de- 
pending very  much  on  expression ; and  the  look  her  face 
habitually  wore  now  was  that  of  a woman  whom  cares 
and  failures  and  struggles  with  necessity  had  reduced  to 
an  automaton.  Yet  in  some  respects  her  position  would 
not  have  been  an  unenviable  one  to  a less  ambitious 
woman.  The  conscientious  care  which  had  formerly  made 
her  a good  governess,  and  later  an  almost  too  submissive 
wife  to  her  careless  husband,  made  her  now  fill  her  very 
unimportant  roles  with  an  attention  to  the  most  trifling 
details  which  obtained  for  her  the  consideration  of  the 
authorities  in  the  theater,  although  it  was  of  course  not 
possible  that  her  efforts  to  be  artistic  in  her  representation 
of  monosyllabic  maids  should  attract  the  attention  of  the 
general  public  or  of  the  critics  in  front.  And  her  salary, 
though  not  high,  was  now  sufficient  to  keep  her  in  com- 
fort, which  might  have  been  greater,  had  she  been  more 
economical.  So  that  the  privilege  of  thinking  herself  a 
martyr  was  almost  out  of  her  reach. 

She  had  not  quite  given  up  hope,  though  it  was  no  Ion- 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


93 


ger  joined  to  bright  confidence  in  ultimate  success,  when 
a small  part  was  intrusted  to  her  which  enabled  her 
to  show  unmistakable  signs  of  talent.  It  was  such  a very 
small  part,  and  it  would  so  undoubtedly  have  improved 
the  piece  from  a dramatist’s  point  of  view  to  cut  out  the 
scene  it  was  in  altogether,  that  the  critics  took  no  notice, 
and  the  public  did  not  seem  impressed.  But  it  drew  the 
attention  of  her  companions  to  her ; and  Annie,  with  her 
heart  beating  wildly,  overheard  more  than  one  prediction 
that  she  would  “get  on.” 

With  reawakened  ambition,  her  old  high  spirits  came 
back  to  her ; the  cloud  of  cold  reserve  which  closed  over 
her  in  spite  of  herself  when  she  was  unhappy,  disappeared, 
and  for  the  first  time  Annie  found  pleasure  in  her  profes- 
sion. The  society  afforded  at  that  time  by  the  theater  she 
was  in,  was  some  of  the  pleasantest  in  London.  It  in- 
cluded men  and  women  who  were  among  the  world’s  recog- 
nized pets— women  of  beauty  and  men  of  wit,  handsome 
actors,  and  two  actresses  of  whom  Europe  had  acknowl- 
edged the  genius.  Annie  felt  the  charm  of  this  brilliant 
circle,  which  was  indeed,  as  theaters  so  seldom  are,  as  at- 
tractive as  the  outside  world  imagined  it  to  be. 

She  was  sitting  in  the  green-room  one  evening,  between 
the  acts,  when  two  of  the  actors  came  in,  discussing  the 
beauty  of  a lady  who  sat  in  one  of  the  boxes  nearest  to  the 
stage. 

“I’m  sure  I’ve  seen  her  in  the  Park,”  said  one;  “and 
I’ve  been  told  her  name;  but  I forget  it.” 

“ Is  that  her  husband  behind  her — the  tall  man  with  the 
eye-glass?” 

“ Don’t  know,  I’m  sure.  Should  think  not.” 

The  other  laughed. 

“She  is  the  handsomest  woman  we  have  had  in  front 
for  a long  time— much  better-looking  than  any  of  the  pro- 
fessional beauties.  Perhaps  she  is  a professional  beauty— 
eh?” 

‘ 4 No — too  good-looking.  ’ ’ 

It  was  the  other’s  turn  to  laugh;  and,  when  they  were 
called  on  to  the  stage,  they  were  still  criticising  the  un- 
known fair  one  and  anxious  for  another  view  of  her. 

Annie’s  curiosity  was  excited,  and,  contrary  to  her  cus- 
tom of  devoting  her  attention  entirely  to  what  was  going 
on  on  the  stage,  she  managed,  on  her  next  appearance  to 
say  a few  lines,  to  get  an  opportunity  of  looking  toward 
the  box  the  two  speakers  had  indicated.  And  she  gave 
one  of  the  slightest,  most  imperceptible  of  starts,  for  the 
lady  was  Lilian,  exquisitely  dressed  and  looking  hand- 
somer than  ever.  Annie  could  not  see  the  face  of  the 
man  behind  her  in  her  glance  at  the  box ; but  she  was 


u 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


anxious  to  know  who  it  was,  and  later  in  the  evening  she 
was  satisfied;  for  a young  actor  named  Gerald  Gibson 
told  another  in  her  hearing  that  the  lady  was  Mrs. 
Falconer,  that  he  had  been  to  a dance  at  her  house  two 
nights  before,  and  that  “ the  tall  man  with  the  eye-glass,” 
who  was  one  of  the  other  occupants  of  the  box,  was  a 
Colonel  Richardson,  who  had  just  returned  from  abroad. 

All  this  filled  Annie  with  excitement  and  anxiety.  Had 
Lilian  recognized  her?  Who  were  the  other  people  in  the 
box?  Had  Colonel  Richardson  really  only  just  returned 
from  abroad?  These  and  other  questions  concerning  her 
sister  in-law  and  the  rest  of  her  husband’s  family  kept  her 
awake  that  night  in  a fever  of  newly  awakened  interest  in 
the  Braith waites.  The  remembrance  of  her  life  at  Gar- 
stone  occupied  her  very  little  now,  the  long,  solitary  hours 
of  daylight,  when  she  was  not  engaged  in  rehearsal,  she 
filled  by  writing,  her  old  taste  for  which  had  revived  to 
console  her  for  lier  otherwise  monotonous  life.  After  the 
exchange  of  a few  letters  with  William,  she  had  heard  no 
more  from  him,  and  it  was  now  more  than  two  years  since 
she  had  received  his  last.  During  all  this  time  no  news 
had  reached  her,  of  her  husband  or  his  family.  She  had 
said  of  late  bitterly  to  herself  that,  if  they  had  cared  to  do 
so,  they  would  have  found  her  out  long  ago,  and  she  had 
begun  to  wonder  whether  she  would  ever  see  any  of  them 
again,  when  this  unexpected,  yet  most  natural  event, 
showed  her  again  the  one  of  all  the  Braith  waites  whom 
she  least  cared  to  see. 

Annie  liked  Gerald  Gibson,  as  everybody  in  the  theater 
did — a grave,  quiet,  thoughtful-looking  man,  whose  re- 
served manners  impressed  those  around  him  with  respect, 
even  though  it  was  often  merely  the  result  of  his  having 
nothing  in  particular  to  say.  He  might  have  been  the  son 
of  a cheesemonger,  but  he  was  as  perfect  a gentleman  not 
only  in  look  and  manner,  but  in  mind,  as  if  he  had  been  the 
son  of  a duke.  Annie  knew,  though  she  had  known  him  only 
a few  weeks,  that  she  could  speak  without  reserve  to  him. 
On  the  evening  after  she  had  seen  Lilian,  therefore,  she 
found  an  opportunity,  when  they  were  on  the  stage  to- 
gether, but  not  immediately  concerned  in  the  business  of 
the  scene,  of  alluding  to  the  beauty  who  had  made  such  a 
sensation  among  them  the  night  before. 

“ I think  I heard  you  say  you  were  fortunate  enough  to 
know  her,  Mr.  Gibson,”  said  she,  her  interest  peeping  out 
from  under  the  indifferent  words. 

“ I don’t  know  her  well.  I was  introduced  to  her  about 
ten  days  ago,  and  somebody  got  me  a card  for  an  ‘At 
home  ’ at  her  house.” 

“ $he  is  very  beautiful,  ain’t  she?” 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


95 


“ Yes,  very,  for  those  who  admire  massive  beauty.” 
“Then  don't  you  admire  her?” 

“ Yes;  but  I have  seen  women  I admire  more.” 

“ I don’t  like  such  frosty  enthusiasm.  Is  she  nice,  pleas- 
ant, amiable?” 

“I  don’t  think  ‘amiable’  is  quite  the  word  for  that 
type  of  woman.  But  she  is  very  brilliant,  very  charm- 
ing.” 

“ I used  to  know  her  once  before  she  was  married,”  said 
Annie  in  a low  voice.  “I  am  glad  to  hear  she  is  happy.” 
“Iam  scarcely  able  to  judge  of  that.  Ladies  act  so 
well,  even  when  they  are  not  on  the  stage,  and  they  are 
often  charming  when  at  heart  they  are  very  miserable ; so 
the  novelists  say.” 

“You  don’t  think  she  is  miserable,  do  you?”  asked 
Annie,  anxiously. 

“Indeed  I have  no  reasons  for  thinking  so.  She  seems 
to  have  everything  she  can  want,  beauty,  wealth,  position, 
a good  husband.” 

“ Then  Mr.  Falconer  is  nice?” 

‘ ‘ He  is  generally  popular,  I believe ; but  I have  scarcely 
seen  him.” 

“Ah!”  escaped  suddenly  from  Annie’s  lips.  She 
thought  those  last  words  significant. 

She  could  not  bring  the  conversation  round  to  Colonel 
Bichardson  now  without  exciting  his  suspicions,  so  she 
merely  asked  him  not  to  mention  that  she  had  ever  known 
Mrs.  Falconer. 

“ I wish  to  remain  perdu  to  my  old  friends  until  I have 
got  on — if  I ever  do  get  on,'’  she  added,  sadly. 

“You  will  get  on,  Miss  Langton.  How  can  you  doubt 
it!” 

“How  can  I do  anything  but  doubt  it?  I have  waited 
so  long,  and  seem  no  nearer  the  end.” 

“ But  you  must  be  nearer  the  end.” 

“Ah— but  what  end?” 

She  turned  away  with  a little  shrug  of  the  shoulders, 
and  his  eyes  followed  her  with  interest.  She  was  not 
massive  and  he  found  more  attraction  in  her  face  than  in 
those  of  all  the  professional  beauties. 

A few  evenings  later,  as  he  was  leaving  the  theater 
when  his  share  of  the  performance  was  over,  he  saw  Miss 
Langton  in  front  of  him  walking  down  the  quiet  street 
where  the  stage-door  was.  A gentleman  standing  on  the 
opposite  pathway  crossed  over  and  raised  his  hat  to  her. 
Gerald  Gibson  saw  her  start,  stop,  hesitate,  and  finally 
put  out  her  hand.  Gerald  passed  them,  but  neither 
noticed  him ; and  he  recognized  the  gentleman  as  Colonel 
Bichardson,  whom  he  had  met  at  Mrs.  Falconer’s. 


96 


v. 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


“That  was  the  reason  of  her  interest  in  Mrs.  Falconer 
then!”  thought  Gerald. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Gerald  Gibson  had  not  gone  many  yards  further  down 
the  street,  after  seeing  the  meeting  between  Miss  Langton 
and  Colonel  Richardson,  when  he  was  overtaken  by  a 
fellow-actor,  Aubrey  Cooke. 

“ Did  you  see  who  little  Langton  was  talking  to?” 

“Some  friend  of  hers,  I suppose.  I didn’t  notice.” 

“It  was  Frank  Richardson,  the  man  there  was  all  that 
scandal  about  a few  years  ago — Lord  Berwick’s  wife— don’t 
you  remember?” 

“Well?” 

“ Well,  I’m  sorry  he  has  got  hold  of  little  Langton,  that 
is  all.” 

“You  are  sorry  without  cause,  then.  Miss  Langton  is  a 
long  way  above  his  level.  She  can’t  refuse  to  speak  to 
him,  for  he  knew  her  people  well  years  ago.  ’ ’ 

With  unerring  certainty  Gerald  Gibson  had  jumped  to 
this  conclusion.  The  other  looked  surprised. 

“ Oh,  you  know  all  about  it,  then?  You  are  the  favorite 
one  for  whom  Miss  Prim  opens  her  lips.  Well,  I really 
am  glad  to  hear  it,  for  she  is  the  flag  I always  hold  out 
when  old  ladies  tell  me  there  are  no  virtuous  women  on 
the  stage;  and,  if  she  were  to  go  I don’t  know  where  on 
earth  I should  look  for  another.” 

“ You  are  too  cynical,  Cooke.” 

“ Don’t  shy  long  words  at  me.  If  I deserve  them  it  is 
because  I was  led  away  to  a meeting  of  the  Society  for  the 
Mutual  Improvement  of  the  Clerical  and  Dramatic  Pro- 
fessions this  afternoon.  Capital  institution — the  parsons 
looked  happy  and  the  pro.’s  looked  good.  But  that  can’t 
last.  Goodnight.” 

Aubrey  Cooke  was  not  at  his  best  with  Gibson ; the  two 
men  had  too  little  in  common.  But  he  was  a clever  fel- 
low. He  had  a plain,  silly  face,  a bitter  tongue,  and  a 
manner  which  found  favor  with  most  women.  He  adored 
women.  Those,  however,  he  worshiped  the  most  deferen- 
tially would  scarcely  have  approved  of  the  manner  in 
which  he  spoke  of  them  among  other  men  in  their  absence, 
for  there  was  a strong  dash  of  young  Paris  in  his  adora- 
tion. He  was  too  shrewd  to  make  many  mistakes;  and  no 
man  knew  better  the  exact  tone  in  which  to  address  any 
particular  woman  of  his  large  and  varied  acquaintance. 
He  bore  Miss  Langton  no  ill-will  for  repeated  unmerited 
snubs;  the  caprices  of  women  are  infinite,  prettier  and  less 
prim  women  abounded,  and  lie  could  revenge  himself  so 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


97 


easily  by  an  epigram — not  a slanderous  one,  but  none  the 
less  cutting— in  the  dressing-room. 

When  Annie  first  recognized  Colonel  Richardson  as  he 
crossed  the  road  toward  her,  her  impulse  was  to  walk  on; 
but  anxiety  to  hear  something  about  the  family  at  the 
Elms  changed  her  intention,  and  she  stopped,  shook  hands 
with  him,  and  allowed  him  to  walk  down  the  street  with 
her. 

“ I knew  you  the  moment  you  came  on,”  said  he.  “ It 
was  a happy  thought  to  go  on  the  stage ; I admire  your 
courage.” 

“ I don’t  think  it  was  courage  that  sent  me  on;  and  at 
present  I have  had  no  reason  to  congratulate  myself  on 
my  attempt,  I assure  you.  Did  Mrs.  Falconer  know  me?” 

“No.  She  did  not  care  for  the  piece,  and  was  not  pay- 
ing much  attention  to  it.  She  does  not  know  you  are  on 
the  stage,  for  she  told  me  she  thought  you  had  become  a 
governess  somewhere.  You  have  done  better  than  that.” 

“Yes.  And  the  rest  of  the  Braithwaites?  Have  you 
seen  any  of  them  since  your  return?” 

“No;  but  Mrs.  Falconer  gives  a very  bad  account  of 
some  of  them.” 

“ What  does  she  say?  Tell  me  quickly,  please.” 

“ It  seems  there  have  been  quarrels  among  the  brothers 
lately,  about  money -matters,  I believe.  Sir  George  and 
Harry  are  the  chief  disputants,  and  Mrs.  Falconer  never 
knows  what  the  next  news  about  them  may  be.  But  I am 
paining  you ” 

“ No,  no;  I want  to  hear  everything.  Will  you  tell  me 
all  you  know  about  my  husband?  Is  he  well?  Is  he  no 
steadier?” 

“ I believe  he  is  well  now;  but  he  was  ill  some  months 
ago.  ’ ’ 

“ 111.  What  was  the  matter  with  him?” 

Colonel  Richardson  hesitated. 

“You  know  his  habits  are  rather  irregular,  and  he  had 
ridden  too  much  and  excited  himself  too  much,  and  I be- 
lieve he  was  ill  from  the  effects  of  overexcitement.  But 
why  do  you  wish  to  know  these  things?  You  are  happily 
spared  the  wrangles  and  disturbances  of  that  unlucky 
household  now.  You  have  the  interest  of  your  own  career 
to  occupy  your  mind ; it  is  much  better  for  you  not  to  con- 
cern yourself  any  more  with  the  doings  of  that  barbaric 
crew.  ’ ’ 

“Don’t  say  that.  Every  word  you  say  makes  me  re- 
proach myself  more.  I am  not  heartless,  though  I see 
now  how  selfish  it  was  of  me  to  sneak  away  as  I did.  You 
will  hardly  believe  that  I thought  I was  doing  what  was 
best  for  my  husband  as  well  as  myself.  I thought  he  was 


98 


A VAGRANT  WIFti. 


too  young  to  be  burdened  with  a wife.  We  did  not  suit 
each  other;  I seemed  to  irritate  him  to  worse  brutality ; 
we  were  spoiling  each  other’s  lives  and  our  own.” 

“You  were  quite  right  to  come  away.  He  would  only 
have  crushed  your  life  out  by  his  coarse  cruelty  before 
now,  if  you  had  stayed  with  him.  How  could  you,  with 
your  sensitive  feelings  and  cultivated  tastes,  bear  with 
that  uncouth  boor?  I used  to  wonder  at  your  patience 
with  him  when  I first  knew  you  in  town  with  him.” 

“I  was  wrong,  though,”  said  Annie,  gravely.  “ If  I 
thought  I could  do  him  any  good  I would  go  back  now.” 

“ I beg  you  not  to  do  anything  so  rash,”  said  Colonel 
Richardson,  hastily.  “Your  husband  is  worse  than  an 
uncouth  lad  now ; he  is  a coarse,  savage- tempered  man. 
Lilian— Mrs.  Falconer— his  own  sister,  is  afraid  of  him; 
and  you  know  she  is  not  meek-spirited.  ’ - 

“ What  does  he  say  of  me?  Does  he  never  speak  about 
me?  Do  you  know?” 

“ The  last  time  his  sister  saw  him  he  told  her  that,  if  he 
ever  met  his  wife  again — and  he  used  language  which  nei- 
ther she  nor  I could  repeat  to  you — he  would  k crush  the 
beauty  out  of  the  face  that  made  a fool  of  him.’  Forgive 
my  repeating  his  words  to  you;  I think  they  will  be  the 
best  warning  I can  give  you  to  keep  out  of  his  reach.” 
Annie  sighed. 

“ You  don’t  make  me  afraid  of  him;  you  only  make  me 
pity  him  as  I would  a fierce  hound  who  had  been  unwisely 
treated.  If  Harry  were  to  crush  my  face,  as  he  said,  in  a 
fit  of  passion,  it  would  be  the  one  thing  which  would  make 
him  treat  me  tenderly  ever  afterward.” 

Colonel  Richardson  looked  surprised. 

“You  almost  make  me  bold  enough  to  wonder ” 

“ Why  I left  him?  I suppose  my  strongest  reason  really 
was  that  he  was  unbearable  to  me.  His  tenderness  was 
odious  as  his  anger,  and  worse  than  his  neglect.  I should 
dislike  him  more  than  ever  now ; but  I should  know  how- 
to treat  him  more  wisely.” 

Colonel  Richardson  understood  women  too  well  to  say 
more  on  that  subject.  He  turned  the  conversation. 

“ Mrs.  Falconer  expects  her  brother  William  next  week,” 
he  said.  “ Shall  I bring  him  to  the  theater  and  see  if  he 
knows  you?” 

Annie  caught  eagerly  at  the  idea  of  seeing  her  favorite 
William  again.  She  had  nothing  to  fear  from  his  know- 
ing where  she  was,  and  she  was  anxious  to  find  out 
whether  he  was  growing  into  a less  worthless  man  than 
his  brothers.  He  was  now  eighteen.  She  was  anxious, 
too,  to  learn  whether  he  still  retained  the  affectionate  re- 
membrance of  her.  So  her  last  words  to  Colonel  Richard- 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


99 


Son  were  a repetition  of  her  injunction  to  bring  him  to  the 
theater  without  any  warning  that  he  would  see  her.  She 
did  not  doubt  that  he  would  know  her,  especially  as  he 
was  the  one  member  of  the  family  who  knew  she  was  on 
the  stage. 

The  season  was  nearly  over  now,  and  night  after  night 
she  scanned  the  audience  anxiously  in  the  hope  of  seeing 
those  two  faces  she  knew ; but  it  was  not  until  the  very 
last  night  of  all  that,  as  she  came  on  to  the  stage,  she  saw 
a tall  young  man  in  the  stalls  half  rise  from  his  seat,  with 
the  exclamation,  just  loud  enough  for  her  to  hear — 
4 4 Annie!” 

At  the  end  of  the  street  William  met  her,  and  could 
hardly  be  restrained  from  embracing  her,  regardless  of  ap- 
pearances. He  was  broader,  manlier  in  figure;  but  in  his 
manner  to  her  he  was  exactly  the  same  as  before.  She 
was  thankful  to  see  that  he  did  not  look  dissipated,  and  he 
hastened  to  assure  her  that  he  had  observed  all  her  com- 
mands, that  he  read  a great  deal  and  ‘‘quite  liked  it.” 
He  had  not  lived  much  at  Elms,  having  passed  most  of  his 
time  with  his  uncle,  his  mother’s  brother,  in  Ireland. 

“And,  Annie,  I’m  not  going  to  lead  an  idle  life.  I’m 
going  to  be  a soldier.” 

“Well,  that  is  the  next  thing  to  it.” 

44  No  disrespect  to  the  army,  I beg,  madam.  It  is  very 
hard  work  to  get  in  at  all  nowadays.  No  Braith waite  ever 
had  to  study  so  much  before  as  I shall  have  to  do  to  pass 
the  exams.  I’m  sure  to  be  4 plucked  ’ the  first  time,  of 
course,  and  very  likely  the  second.  I must  get  through 
the  third  time,  you  know,  or  else  it  will  be  all  up  with 
me.” 

“You  must  get  through  the  first  time,”  said  Annie  in- 
dignantly. “If  you  don’t,  I will  never  speak  to  you 
again.” 

“Oh,  yes,  you  will.  If  I don’t  pass,  you  will  have  to 
console  me,  and,  if  I do  pass,  you  will  congratulate  me. 
Oh,  Annie,  I wish  I had  been  old  enough  to  marry  you,  or 
that  you  had  married  George,  so  that  you  might  come 
back  to  the  Elms  again.”  No  suggestion  that  she  should 
go  back  to  Harry,  however.  Annie  looked  up  at  him 
quickly. 

“How  is  Harry?  He  is  not  anxious  for  my  return,  I 
suppose?” 

“ Oh,  to  think  of  your  being  his  wife  is  intolerable!  He 
is  not  worthy  to  look  at  you.  Sometimes  he  is  sorry,  in  a 
maudlin  sort  of  way,  that  he  can’t  see  you,  and  complains 
that  you  have  deserted  him,  and  that  you  are  the  only 
woman  he  ever  cared  about.  But  that  is  all  nonsense,  and 
he  says  it  only  when  he  is  drunk.  He  drinks  worse  than 


100 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


Wilfred.  And  a few  months  ago Well,  never  mind 

that!  You  mustn’t  trouble  your  head  any  more  about 
him.” 

Annie  listened  in  silence,  her  heart  aching  with  remorse. 
She  knew  well  enough  now  that  she  had  done  irretrievable 
wrong  in  leaving  her  husband,  whom  at  least  she  could,  at 
the  entire  sacrifice  of  herself,  have  kept  from  this.  But  it 
was  too  late  now,  she  told  herself.  If  she  returned  to  him 
now  unbidden,  with  the  feeling  of  repulsion  toward  him  a 
thousand-fold  stronger  than  ever,  she  could  not  expect  a 
welcome,  she  could  not  even  repress  the  disgust  she  felt. 

She  told  William  that  she  was  going  to  leave  town  and 
travel  with  a theatrical  company,  to  gain  experience  in 
better  parts  than  she  could  hope  to  play  in  London  yet. 
He  walked  all  the  way  home  with  her,  and,  looking  at  her 
gravely  as  he  stood  saying  the  last  words  to  her,  he  com- 
plained that  she  was  thin  and  pale. 

“Do  you  know,  Annie,  you  are  so  much  altered  I should 
hardly  have  known  you.  You  have  lost  all  your  pretty 
color,  and  your  eyes  are  not  half  so  bright  as  they  used  to 
be.  It  is  all  that  beast  Harry,  making  you  have  to  work 
for  your  living !”  he  broke  out,  passionately.  ‘ 4 He  deserves 
to  be  kicked!” 

“Come,  be  reasonable,  William;  that  is  not  Harry’s 
fault.  Women  must  expect  to  4 go  off  ’ in  looks,  you  know, 
as  they  grow  older.” 

44  But  you  are  not  old.  That  is  nonsense.” 

44 1 am  two-and-twenty.  When  you  last  saw  me,  I was 
not  nineteen.” 

44  Well,  you  ought  not  to  have  changed  so  much  in  less 
than  three  years.  Never  mind,”  added  he  affectionately, 
seeing  that  his  words  seemed  to  depress  his  sister-in-law — 
44 1 love  you  just  as  much  as  ever;  and  you  will  soon  get 
back  your  color  when  you  get  out  of  London  and  forget 
all  about  Harry  again.” 

And  he  kissed  her  and  bade  her  good-bye  most  unwill- 
ingly ; for  the  following  morning  he  had  to  go  back  to  the 
Elms,  to  see  George  about  the  expenses  of  a 44  coach  ” to 
cram  him  for  the  examination  he  would  have  to  go 
through. 

Annie  went  up-stairs  to  her  rooms — she  could  afford  to 
have  a sitting-room  now — feeling  ashamed  of  the  pain  his 
remarks  upon  her  looks  had  given  her.  It  was  a fact  she 
had  known  for  a long  time  now,  that  her  beauty  hr*d 
fallen  off,  so  that  there  were  barely  traces  of  it  left.  A 
thin,  brown  face,  without  a tinge  of  pink  in  the  cheeks, 
and  with  scarcely  more  than  a tinge  in  the  lips,  eyes  from 
which  the  brightness  of  hope  and  joy  had  gone,  and  a 
vreary,  worn  expression,  were  what  less  than  three  years 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


101 


of  lonely  work  and  disappointment  had  left  of  her  youth- 
ful prettiness.  No  woman,  and  especially  an  actress,  can 
suffer  the  sense  of  lost  beauty  to  be  suddenly  brought 
home  to  her  without  a pang,  and  Annie’s  vanity  was 
strong  enough  to  make  her  cry  at  William’s  evident 
regret. 

“Perhaps  Harry  himself  would  not  know  me,”  she 
thought  to  herself,  “and  would  be  disgusted  if  I were 
pointed  out  to  him  as  his  wife.” 

So  she  cried  herself  to  sleep. 

When  William  arrived  at  the  Elms  next  day,  he  was 
even  less  inclined  than  usual  to  meet  his  brother  Harry  on 
friendly  terms.  For  he  looked  upon  the  latter  as  being  the 
cause  of  Annie’s  exile — so  he  chose  to  consider  her  volun- 
tary flight— and  therefore  as  the  cause  also  of  all  her 
struggles  and  the  terrible  alteration  in  her  looks.  So  the 
lad  avoided  his  brother  as  much  as  he  could  until  dinner- 
time, when  there  was  no  help  for  their  coming  in  contact 
with  each  other,  as  their  places  were  set  side  by  side.  An 
unlucky  accident  brought  the  name  of  the  half- forgotten 
wife  into  the  conversation.  Wilfred  rallied  his  youngest 
brother,  who  had  not  been  at  the  Elms  for  some  time,  upon 
being  “ so  confoundedly  abstemious.” 

“One  would  think  little  Annie  were  still  here  reading 
you  sermons  across  the  table  with  her  pretty  eyes,”  said 
he. 

The  blood  rushed  to  the  lad’s  face,  for  Harry  uttered  an 
oath  at  the  mention  of  his  wife. 

“I  wish  we  had  never  frightened  the  dear  little  thing 
away,”  Wilfred  went  on,  in  a maudlin  manner.  “She 
was  our  little  bit  of  righteousness.  It  made  me  take  to 
bad  courses,  her  going  away  did.” 

This  was  not  a happy  speech,  and  it  was  followed  by  a 
minute’s  silence  on  the  part  of  all  three  of  his  brothers; 
Stephen  was  not  there. 

“Why  don’t  you  hunt  her  up,  Harry?”  went  on  Wil- 
fred, who  either  wished  to  irritate  his  brother  or  had  less 
tact  than  usual.  “ I wouldn’t  let  my  wife  leave  me  in  the 
lurch,  if  I had  one,  and  go  tramping  about  all  over  the 
world,  amusing  herself  without  me.” 

4 ‘ She  may  go  to  the  deuce  for  what  I care,  if  she  isn’t 
gone  already!”  burst  out  Harry. 

William  clinched  his  fists  and  tried  to  keep  still.  The 
injured  husband  went  on  : 

“ A little,  sly,  vagabond  governess,  glad  enough  to  en- 
trap a gentleman  into  marrying  her,  and  then  cutting 
away  and  bringing  disgrace  upon  his  name!” 

“Disgrace!”  cried  William,  turning  with  flashing  eyes 
upon  his  brother,  “As  if  any  wife  could  disgrace  you! 


102 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


As  if  Annie,  who  was  a thousand  times  too  good  for  you 
to  black  her  shoes,  could  have  any  worse  disgrace  than  to 
be  your  wife!” 

“You  hold  your  tongue,  you  young  cub!”  said  his 
brother,  doggedly.  “I  say  she  didn’t  deserve  a decent 
husband.” 

“ Well,  she  didn’t  get  one  ’’—this  from  Wilfred. 

“She  didn’t  deserve  a decent  husband,  and  she  couldn’t 
be  expected  to  stay  in  a respectable  house.” 

“What  respectable  house?” — Wilfred  again. 

Harry  went  on  without  noticing  the  interruptions. 

“ It  was  natural  that  her  vagrant  instincts  should  get 
the  better  of  her  again,  and  she  should  take  the  first 
chance  of  going  off  on  the  tramp.” 

“You  infernal  liar!”  shouted  William,  too  much  ex- 
cited to  be  careful.  “She  is  no  more  a tramp  than  you 
are.  And,  as  for  her  ‘ vagrant  instincts,’  you  stupid  ass, 
they  have  led  her  into  much  better  society  than  she  would 
ever  have  got  into  with  you  at  her  heels!” 

All  t he  others  were  startled,  and  William  checked  him- 
self as  he  was  going  to  say  more.  Harry  brought  a rough 
hand  down  on  his  shoulder. 

“So  you  are  in  the  secret,  are  you?  Come  now,  out 
with  it;  where  is  she?” 

“ Out  of  your  reach,  luckily  for  her.” 

“ Yes,  but  you  are  not,  unluckily  for  you!”  said  Harry, 
thickly,  rising  to  his  feet  and  standing  threateningly  over 
his  brother,  not  heeding  Sir  George’s  voice  crying,  “ Sit 
down !” 

“Now,  then,  where  is  she?” 

William  thrust  away  his  chair  and  faced  his  tipsy 
brother  steadily. 

“I  would  not  help  to  put  her  in  your  power  again  by  tell- 
ing you  where  to  find  her,  even  if  I knew,  if  you  were  to 
tear  me  to  pieces!” 

He  stepped  aside  quickly  to  avoid  the  lunge  Harry  made 
at  him,  and  left  the  room. 

“ Bravo,  young  un!”  said  Wilfred. 

The  baronet  afterward  tried  gentler  and  subtler  means 
to  find  out  Annie’s  hiding-place  from  the  lad;  but  William 
kept  the  secret  safely. 

Meanwhile,  the  fugitive  wife  was  preparing  for  a new 
experience.  She  had,  as  she  had  told  William,  resolved 
upon  leaving  London  for  awhile,  hoping  that  practice  in 
the  country  might  mature  her  talent  and  enable  her  at  the 
end  of  a few  months  to  take  a higher  position  than  she 
could  aspire  to  at  present.  She  knew  very  well  that,  once 
out  of  London,  it  would  be  by  no  means  easy  to  get  back ; but 
the  feeling  that  she  was  advancing  no  further,  and  could 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


103 


not  hope  to  advance  farther  without  more  experience, 
prevailed  over  every  other;  and  she  thought  herself  fort- 
unate in  getting  an  engagement,  in  a traveling  company, 
just  about  to  start  on  tour,  to  play  second  parts  in  old 
comedy.  It  was  not  going  to  what  are  considered  the  best 
towns  in  a theatrical  sense;  but  it  was  a good  company, 
and  Annie  had  heard  that  one  of  the  actors  of  the  theater 
she  had  just  left  would  be  in  it  too. 

She  had  heard  Gerald  Gibson  speak  of  going  into  the 
country,  and  had  come  at  once  to  the  conclusion  that  he 
must  be  the  actor  alluded  to ; she  was  very  glad  of  this, 
for  he  was  one  of  her  favorites. 

When,  however,  she  got  on  to  the  stage  of  the  theater 
which  had  been  engaged  for  their  rehearsals,  which  was 
as  dark  as  most  stages  are  in  the  day-time,  she  saw  no 
face  she  knew  among  the  people  assembled  there,  except 
that  of  the  manager  who  had  engaged  her. 

“I  thought  you  said  I should  meet  one  of  my  late 
companions,”  she  remarked  to  him  when  he  shook  hands 
with  her. 

44  Yes,  Mr.  Cooke  is  here  somewhere,”  he  answered. 

44  Oh,  Mr.  Cooke!”  she  echoed,  in  a tone  of  evident  dis- 
appointment. 

Now  Aubrey  was  standing  in  the  shadow  only  a few  feet 
away  from  her.  He  was  always  particularly  quiet  when 
he  was  not  remarkably  noisy,  and.  having  nobody  to  talk 
to  at  the  moment,  he  had  been  still  as  a statue,  and  had 
heard  every  word  of  this  short  colloquy,  and  noticed  the 
tone  of  Miss  Langton’s exclamation:  and  he  was  nettled  by 
it.  For  he  had  made  up  his  mind  that  she  was  decidedly 
the  most  attrafctive  of  the  ladies  of  the  company,  and  had 
resolved  to  pay  her  the  compliment  of  devoting  his  at- 
tention to  her  during  the  tour. 

But,  after  this  unconsciously  administered  rebuff,  he  had 
to  resort  to  the  other  alternative— of  basking  in  the  more 
easily  won  smiles  of  the  leading  lady,  Miss  Muriel  West. 
All  that  Annie  could  see  of  this  lady  in  the  dim  light  on 
the  stage  was  that  she  was  very  handsome,  with  great, 
winning,  velvety  brown  eyes  shaded  by  long,  black 
lashes,  and  that  she  was  very  badly  dressed,  apparently 
in  odds  and  ends  from  her  stage  wardrobe. 

They  were  rehearsing  44  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,”  and 
Miss  West  played  Miss  Hardcastle,  while  Annie  herself 
was  Miss  Neville.  Annie  discovered  in  the  course  of  the 
morning  that  Miss  West  had  a sweet,  rich  voice  and  a 
kindly  manner,  an  unrefined  accent,  and  a rather  heavy 
touch  in  comedy.  During  the  succeeding  rehearsals  she 
further  discovered  that  Miss  West  was  good-humored  and 
amusing,  and  that  she  already  exerted  a strong  fascina- 


104 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


tion  over  most  of  the  men  of  the  company ; Aubrey  Cooke, 
foremost  as  usual  where  a charming  woman  was  concerned, 
being  absent  from  her  side  only  when  he  was  wanted  on 
the  stage  for  his  part  of  Tony  Lumpkin. 

The  rest  of  the  women  were  uninteresting.  There  was 
a common  but  clever  girl  of  about  her  own  age  who  played 
old  women;  she  called  herself  “Lola  Montrose,”  but  did 
not  look  like  it,  and  was  dressed  in  clothes  which  would 
have  been  neat  and  appropriate  if  she  had  not  tried  to 
“ smarten  herself  up  a bit  ” with  large  bunches  of  cheap 
but  brilliant  artificial  flowers.  And  there  was  a well-born 
and  well-educated  girl  who  had  gone  on  the  stage  against 
the  wishes  of  her  friends,  and  who  stayed  on  it  against  the 
wishes  of  the  audience;  she  played  chamber-maids;  but, 
though  she  could  make  witty  speeches  of  her  own  off  the 
stage,  she  always  failed  to  extract  the  wit  from  any  speech 
she  had  to  make  on  it.  And  there  was  also  a curiously 
incapable  girl  who  was  the  manager’s  niece. 

On  the  day  of  the  last  rehearsal,  before  the  tour  began, 
Aubrey  Cooke  followed  Annie  to  a corner  of  the  stage, 
where  she  was  standing  quietly,  as  usual,  rather  apart 
from  the  rest. 

“ I beg  your  pardon,”  said  he  shyly — Aubrey  was  very 
shy  sometimes — “ I hope  you  won’t  think  what  I am  going 
to  say  impertinent;  but  I couldn’t  help  overhearing  pare 
of  your  conversation  with  Miss  West  this  morning  about 
— about  your  living  together.” 

“ Oh,  yes!  She  was  suggesting  that  we  should  lodge  to- 
gether, as  it  is  so  much  cheaper  than  living  apart.  And 
she  knows  all  about  touring,  and  I know  nothing  at  all 
about  it.  I thought  it  was  very  kind  of  her.” 

“She  meant  to  be  kind,  I have  no  doubt,”  mumbled 
Aubrey.  But  I don’t  think  arrangements  of  that  sort 
ever  answer,  unless  people  know  all  about  one  another; 
and,  if  you  have  not  settled  anything,  I would  strongly 
advise  you  to  try  lodging  for  a week  by  yourself  first; 
and  then,  of  course,  after  that  you  would  know  all  about 
everybody,  and  be  able  to  make  arrangements  with  any 
lady  you  liked.  I hope  you  will  forgive  my  interference; 

I could  not  help  seeing  "that,  as  you  say,  you  know  noth- 
ing at  all  about  touring  yet.” 

Annie  had  scarcely  time  to  thank  him  for  his  advice  be- 
fore he  had  raised  his  hat  and  left  her.  Aubrey  Cooke 
was  a gentleman,  and,  in  spite  of  her  apparent  prejudice 
against  him,  he  felt  sympathy  with  the  forlorn  little  lady. 
When  Annie  left  the  theater  that  morning,  Miss  West  was 
coming  out  at  the  same  time,  and  for  the  first  time  Annie 
saw  her  complexion  by  daylight;  and  the  force  of  Aubrey 
Cooke’s  advice  struck  Miss  Langton  at  once,  for  the  pink 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


106 


and  white  and  black  of  the  leading  lady’s  beauty  showed 
a difference  of  tastes  between  them  which  was  more  than 
skin-deep. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Before  the  company  Annie  had  joined  started  on  a tour, 
she  had  heard  more  tidings  to  distress  her  about  the 
Braith waite  family.  It  was  Aubrey  Cooke  who  brought 
them  this  time.  He  was  telling  her  that  he  had  met  their 
late  companion,  Gerald  Gibson,  at  Mrs.  Falconer’s  the  day 
before. 

“Oh!  Do  you  know  her  too?” 

“ Yes;  I have  known  her  much  longer  than  Gibson  has. 
He  and  I have  long  arguments  about  her.” 

“ I can  guess  which  side  you  take.” 

“I  always  take  the  part  of  a beautiful  woman.  And 
Gibson  really  does  her  cruel  injustice.  She  might  sit  for 
the  portrait  of  the  favorite  handsome  panther-woman  of 
the  lady  novelists.” 

“ I expected  something  more  complimentary  than  that. 
I don’t  call  that  high  praise.” 

“Don’t  you?  Well,  I don’t  know  any  pretty  woman 
who  would  not  feel  flattered  at  being  called  a panther; 
most  of  them  only  get  as  far  as  to  be  like  cats.” 

“Now  you  are  absolutely  libelous!  I know  you  will  go 
on  to  say  that  panthers  are  as  cruel  as  they  are  graceful, 
that  they  delight  in  human  victims,  and  you  might  add, 
if  you  dared,  that  the  pursuit  of  them  was  an  exciting 
sport.  And  then  you  will  ask  if  the  parallel  does  not  hold 
good.” 

“Indeed,  I shall  say  nothing  so  commonplace,  Miss 
Langton.  I always  maintain,  to  begin  with,  that  beautiful 
women  are  not  cruel.  It  is  not  their  fault  if  we  crowd 
round  them  in  such  numbers  that  they  mix  us  up  a little,  - 
and  hurt  our  feelings  by  forgetting  us.  I have  a great  ad- 
vantage over  most  of  my  rivals  in  one  respect— my  ap- 
pearance. I heard  a lady  call  me  the  other  day  the  nice, 
quiet  young  man  who  looks  so  stupid.  She  was  asking  a 
man  named  Colonel  Richardson  who  I was.” 

“ Colonel  Richardson?” 

“ Yes.  He  is  a gentleman  whom  I always  meet  at  Mrs. 
Falconer’s,  a very  old  friend  of  the  family,  I believe.” 
Now  Aubrey  Cooke  had  noted  well,  without  appearing 
to  remark  it,  the  expression  of  pain  and  anxiety  which 
passed  over  Annie’s  face  as  he  mentioned  that  Colonel 
Richardson  was  always  at  Mrs.  Falconer’s.  But  not  hav- 
ing the  least  suspicion  that  she  herself  knew  the  popular 
beauty,  he  misunderstood  the  cause  of  her  distress,  and 


106 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


connected  it  with  the  fact  of  the  meeting  he  and  Gibson 
had  seen  a little  way  from  the  stage-door  some  nights  be- 
fore; and  he  wondered  whether  she  knew  that  Colonel 
Richardson  was  married,  and  whether  she  had  heard  cer- 
tain old  scandals  connected  with  his  name. 

For  the  first  few  weeks  of  the  tour  Aubrey  saw  very 
little  of  Miss  Langton.  She  had  taken  his  advice  and 
drawn  back,  as  civilly  as  she  could,  from  the  proposal  of 
living  with  Miss  West,  whom  she  soon  found  out  to  be  a 
coarse  woman  of  not  too  reputable  life,  whose  beauty  and 
a certain  rough  good- humor  made  her  dangerous  to  many 
men.  She  saw  through  the  motive  of  Annie’s  shyness  at 
once,  and  said,  with  a laugh : 

“I  suppose  I am  nob  good  enough  for  you,  little 
Puritan?” 

But  she  showed  neither  anger  nor  bitterness  about  it, 
and  was  consistently  kind,  after  her  fashion,  all  the  time 
the  tour  lasted,  to  the  quiet  little  girl  to  whom  she  had 
taken  a capricious  liking.  So  that  Annie  could  not  help  a 
sneaking  liking  for  her,  especially  as  Miss  West  showed, 
in  parts  requiring  dramatic  power,  a rough  force  which  in 
some  scenes  kept  Annie  spell  bound  in  the  wings  watching 
her,  and  asking  herself  if  this  were  not  genius.  And  then 
Miss  West  would  destroy  the  illusion  by  coming  off  at  the 
side,  scolding  the  prompter  for  not  being  at  his  post,  and 
calling  for  stout  or  for  brandy  and  water. 

Annie,  therefore,  chose  to  live  alone,  the  only  girl  of  her 
own  standing  in  the  company  being  the  amateur  chamber- 
maid, who  was  so  ostentatiously  poor  and  aggressively 
economical  that  Miss  Langton  felt  that  life  with  her  would 
be  a sort  of  voluntary  martyrdom. 

She  had  some  trials  with  lazy  landladies,  extortionate 
landladies,  maids-of -all- work  who  did  not  give  her  enough 
attention,  and  others  who  gave  her  too  much.  They  had 
been  traveling  some  weeks,  when,  in  a certain  town  which 
is  one  of  the  oldest  in  England,  she  got  into  some  lodgings 
where  the  landlady  was  always  out,  and,  being  a lone 
widow  who  kept  no  servant,  sometimes  left  her  lodgers  to 
wait  upon  themselves  more  than  was  meet. 

Aubrey  Cooke  had  rooms  above  Annie’s  in  this  house, 
and,  on  reaching  the  door,  tired,  hot,  and  hungry  after  a 
long  rehearsal  of  a piece  which  had  just  been  added  to 
their  repertory,  Annie  found  her  fellow-lodger  kicking  the 
paint  viciously  off  the  inhospitable  portal. 

“It  is  qf  no  use,  Mr.  Cooke,”  said  Annie,  resignedly. 
“ The  stupid  old  woman  has  gone  to  market,  and  we 
shall  have  to  wait  till  she  comes  back,  unless  we  go  and 
hunt  her  up  where  she  is  making  her  bargains  in  stale  cab- 
bages,” 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


10? 

I{  But  it  is  abominable  to  make  her  lodgers  stand  kick- 
ing their  heels  in  the  blazing  sun.  while  she  is  haggling 
over  a penn’orth  of  onions!”  said  he,  with  another  lunge 
at  the  door. 

Annie  meanwhile  had  been  prowling  about. 

“ Do  you  think  you  could  open  the  kitchen  window,  Mr. 
Cooke?”  she  asked,  dubiously.  “We  might  get  in  there. 
It  isn’t  far  from  the  ground.” 

It  was  a small  window,  just  low  enough  for  him  to 
reach  the  fastening  easily  with  his  pocket-knife.  In  a few 
minutes  he  had  pushed  the  fastening  aside,  scrambled  up 
on  to  the  sill,  opened  the  window,  and  got  in  amid  the 
crash  of  timber. 

“What  have  you  done?”  asked  Annie,  anxiously,  as  he 
appeared  again,  disguised  in  flour  and  paste. 

“I’ve  fallen  into  a lot  of  things,  it  seems,”  said  he,  “and 
I believe  I’ve  sprained  my  ankle.” 

“Oh,  my  roly-poly  pudding!”  cried  Annie,  not  heeding 
his  ailments  in  the  unhappy  discovery. 

“ I’m  afraid  it  is  done  for  now,”  answered  Mr.  Cooke, 
as  he  removed  the  body  of  the  uncooked  pudding  from  his 
sleeve.  “It  will  do  for  a poultice  forme,  however,”  he 
said,  cheerfully;  “and  Mrs.  Briggs  will  put  it  down  in 
both  our  bills,  so  it  won’t  be  wasted.  Wait,  I’ll  give  you 
a chair  to  help  you  up.” 

She  got  in;  and  they  both  began  to  look  about  for  some- 
thing to  make  dinner  of.  Annie  went  to  the  cupboard, 
while  Mr.  Cooke  opened  a door  and  fell  down  two  steps 
into  the  back  kitchen  with  a cry  of  joy.  He  had  knocked 
his  head  against  a skinny -looking  bird,  already  plucked, 
which  was  hanging  down  from  the  ceiling.  But  Annie 
shook  her  head  contemptuously  when  she  saw  it. 

“ It  is  one  of  Mrs.  Briggs’  prehistoric  chickens,  and  it 
would  want  a lot  of  preparation  before  we  could  cook  it. 
Besides,  I don’t  know  how,  and  the  fire  is  out.” 

So  they  hunted  again,  and,  not  finding  anything  but 
bones  and  Mr.  Cooke’s  cheese,  Aubrey  went  out  to  buy 
chops,  having  said  doubtfully  that  he  thought  he  could 
cook  a chop,  but  wasn’t  sure,  while  Miss  Langton  set  to 
work  to  make  a fire.  When  she  came  back,  after  a rather 
long  absence,  they  were  both  radiant;  for  Annie,  as  she  let 
him  in,  told  him  in  great  delight  that  she  had  made  a 
lovely  fire,  and  found  where  the  plates,  and  knives,  and 
forks  were  kept,  and  he  pulled  out  of  his  pockets  a num- 
ber of  small  parcels  and  a gridiron,  and  produced  from 
under  his  arm  a huge  cookery  book,  which  he  laid  tri- 
umphantly down  upon  a bag  containing  cheese  cakes. 

“The  baker’s  wife  lent  me  this;  so  now  we  can  have 
fifteen  courses  if  we  like.  This  will  tell  us  how  to  make  a. 


108 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


vol-au-vent  a la  financier e,  or  a fricandeau  de  veau  with 
sauce  piquante,  or ” 

‘‘But  it  won’t  tell  us  how  to  cook  a chop  without  burn- 
ing it  to  a cinder,  or  how  to  boil  a potato  when  I can’t  find 
where  they  are  kept,”  said  Annie,  taking  up  the  gridiron 
and  turned  it  over  thoughtfully. 

“ Why,  I can  show  you  what  to  do  with  that!”  said  he, 
with  superiority. 

And  at  last,  after  a great  deal  of  unnecessary  trouble 
and  excitement,  and  after  having  burned  their  hands  and 
scorched  their  faces  and  gone  through  a sort  of  purgatory 
on  a hot  early  September  afternoon,  they  did  succeed  in 
cooking  the  chops ; and  then  Aubrey  danced  round  them  in 
affectionate  pride,  while  Annie  suggested  that  they  should 
dine  in  her  sitting-room,  which  was  only  on  the  other  side 
of  the  passage. 

“Oh,  no,”  said  Aubrey;  “let  us  have  it  in  herej  and 
then  we  can  do  some  more  cooking!” 

So  they  pulled  the  kitchen-table  out  of  range  of  the  fire, 
and  put  bits  of  firewood  and  paper  under  the  rickety  legs, 
and  laid  the  cloth  and  arranged  the  knives  and  forks  with 
elaborate  carefulness,  and  Aubrey  rushed  to  the  tap  and 
filled  a jug  which  they  then  discovered  to  have  contained 
milk;  and,  the  mania  of  cooking  being  still  strong  upon 
him,  he  insisted  on  putting  the  battered  cheese-cakes  into 
the  oven  “ to  revive  them,”  and  then  made  buttered  toast 
“ for  dessert,”  to  work  off  his  culinary  energy.  And  Annie 
laughed  at  him,  and  enjoyed  herself  very  much.  And  then 
she  suggested  boiling  some  water  for  coffee,  which  she  knew 
how  to  make,  she  said. 

“Yes,  because  it  doesn’t  require  any  making.  Every- 
thing that  demands  a little  science  falls  to  me,”  said 
Aubrey,  decisively,  putting  the  kettle  on  the  fire  so  that  it 
immediately  fell  over  on  its  side  with  a loud  hiss. 

However,  the  coffee  was  made  at  last,  and  of  course 
Aubrey  said  it  was  the  only  time  he  had  tasted  good 
coffee  out  of  Paris;  and,  the  landlady  not  having  yet  re- 
turned, though  the  afternoon  was  drawing  to  a close, 
Annie  was  rising  to  put  away  some  of  the  things,  when 
Aubrey  stopped  her. 

“ Don’t  be  so  wrong-headed  as  to  save  that  unprincipled 
old  lady  trouble,”  said  he.  “Besides,  I dare  say  she  will 
stay  away  till  about  nine  o’clock,  and  we  shall  want  the 
things  again  for  tea.” 

Annie  made  a grimace. 

“ Then  we  shall  have  to  wash  them  up.” 

“ That  is  very  simple.  Put  them  all  in  the  sink  add  turn 
the  tap  on.” 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


109 


He  was  stilting  the  action  to  the  word  when  Annie 


ell,  don’t  let  us  go  away  then,  because  the  fire  might 
go  out,  and  then  poor  Mrs.  Briggs  might  find  it  cold  when 
She  comes  back,”  said  he,  with  unexpected  solicitude. 

He  did  not  want  to  break  up  this  tete-a-tete , in  which 
Annie,  for  the  first  time,  had  been  in  her  most  charming, 
est  mood  with  him. 


o stay,”  be  said  coaxingly.  “Let  us  tell  each  other 
stories  by  the  fire-light.  I’ll  begin;  I’ll  tell  you  a beauty 
that  I made  up  myself,  all  about  ogres  and  a good  little 
girl  and  a bad  little  girl.” 

He  was  patting  Mrs.  Briggs’  rocking-chair  persuasively, 
and  at  last  Annie  allowed  herself  to  fall  into  it,  while  Au- 
brey went  on  in  a chirping  tone : 

“ There  was  once  a very  dreadful  ogre  as  bad  as  he  was 
ugly — he  had  a mouth  as  big  as  mine — and  he  had  for  his 
play -fellows  and  companions  all  the  bad  little  boys  and 
girls  in  the  neighborhood ; but  of  course  the  good  boys  and 
girls  ran  away  as  soon  as  they  saw  him,  especially  one 
little  girl  who  felt  quite  sure  that  he  would  eat  her  up  if  she 
spoke  civilly  to  him.  So  she  was  always  as  distant  as  she 
could  be,  and  sometimes  made  the  poor  ogre  quite  uncom- 
fortable, which  of  course  was  quite  right  and  proper ; until 
one  day  she  met  the  poor  ogre  when  somebody  had  stolen 
his  dinner— and  hers  too,  by  the  way — and  instead  of  eat- 
ing her  up  as  she  expected,  he  did  his  best  to  make  himself 

as  agreeable  as  circumstances  would  permit;  and 

What  are  you  laughing  at,  Miss  Langton?” 

“ I was  laughing  at  something  I was  thinking  about,  Mr. 
Cooke.  You  can't  expect  me  to  keep  my  attention  fixed 
on  your  idiotic  nursery  stories.” 

“Oh!  And  so  at  last  the  good  little  girl  got  quite  saucy; 
and — I really  must  beg  you  to  restrain  your  mirth  at  your 
own  private  thoughts,  Miss  Langton.  It  is  not  courteous 
when  a gentleman  is  doing  his  best  to  be  entertaining — 
and  instructive  as  well.  To  resume.  And  so  the  ogre 
wondered  to  himself  whether  the  good  little  girl  would 
feel  quite  sure  for  the  future  that  he  didn’t  want  to  eat 
her  up,  and  whether  she  would  think  he  was  not  such  a 
bad  fellow  after  all,  and  not  half  a bad  cook  at  a pinch. 
That  is  all,  Miss  Langton,  unless  you  would  like  the 
moral.” 

“ Let  us  have  the  moral,  by  all  means,  if  you  can  find 
one  in  all  that  tissue  of  nonsense.” 

“ I pass  over  your  impertinent  comments  in  silence. 

The  moral  is What  have  I done  to  make  you  dislike 

me  so  much,  Miss  Langton?” 

“I  don’t  understand  you,  Mr.  Cooke.  If  I disliked 


;d  him. 


iiO  ^ 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


you,  should  I have  devoted  all  my  energies,  as  I havo 
done  this  afternoon,  to  preparing  your  dinner  and  being  to 
you  all  that  Mrs.  Briggs  ever  was  and  more — for  she  never 
gives  you  coffee  after  dinner?” 

“Your  civility  to  me  to-day  has  been  dictated  by  the 
purest  selfishness.  If  it  had  not  been  for  me  you  would 
have  had  to  go  out  and  buy  your  own  dinner,  and  you  would 
not  have  known  which  side  of  the  gridiron  to  hold.  I re- 
peat, without  me  you  would  have  been  a forlorn,  dinner- 
less woman.  Look  here — there  is  no  making  a bargain 
with  a lady,  because  she  can  always  cry  off  when  she 
likes.  But  if  you  would  only  believe  that  nothing  would 
give  me  so  much  pleasure  as  to  be  able  to  render  you  any 
service  at  any  time,  and  that  your  reserve  really  does 
hurt  sometimes,  I should  be  so  "glad  of  having  had  this 
chance  of  telling  you  so.” 

He  got  shy  against  the  end  of  this  speech ; and  Annie 
turned  toward  him  a face  which  looked  very  sweet  as  well 
as  pretty  in  the  fire  light. 

“I  do  believe  it,”  she  said,  simply.  “And  I promise 
you  that  for  the  future  you  shall  not  only  not  have  to 
complain  of  my  reserve,  but  you  may  think  yourself  lucky 
if  you  do  not  have  to  check  my  forwardness.” 

“Madam,  my  innate  dignity  will  awe  you  sufficiently,” 
said  Aubrey  haughtily. 

But  he  looked  as  much  pleased  as  his  inexpressive  face 
ever  allowed  him  to  look.  And  when  Mrs.  Briggs  came  in 
just  in  time  to  get  tea  ready,  affecting  great  surprise  at 
their  being  home  before  her,  and  protesting  that  she  had 
understood  both  of  them  to  say  they  would  dine  out,  they 
were  both  still  chatting  amicably  by  the  kitchen  fire. 
Aubrey  was  in  such  high  spirits  that  he  seized  the 
occasion  to  thunder  forth  a long  harangue  at  the  fright- 
ened and  apologetic  old  woman. 

“Is  this  the  way  to  treat  two  members  of  a profession 
which  numbers  m its  ranks  the  fairest  of  England’s 
women  and  the  noblest  of  her  men?  Woman,  do  you 
take  us  for  amateurs?  Your  four  hours  of  trifling  and 
foolish  chattering  in  the  market-place— a tiling  which 
Bunyan  condemns  as  most  reprehensible— have  been 
gained  at  the  expense  of  an  afternoon  of  unspeakable 
suffering  and  wretchedness  to  two  of  the  most  pecuniarily 
desirable  inmates  who  have  ever  condescended  to  take  up 
a temporary  residence  under  your  inhospitable  roof!” 

Mrs.  Briggs  was  overwhelmed. 

“ I am  sure,  sir,  I am  very  sorry.  But  you  looked  pretty 
comfortable  sitting  there  by  the  fire  together.” 

“Comfortable!  This  woman  says  we  looked  comfort- 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . Ill 

able,”  said  Aubrey,  turning  in  amazement  to  Annie,  who 
hastened  to  say: 

“And  so  we  were,  Mrs.  Briggs— at  least,  I was.  As  for 
Mr.  Cooke,  some  people  are  never  contented,  you  know.” 

And  she  ran  away  laughing  to  her  sitting-room,  while 
Aubrey  went  up-stairs  to  his,  singing  Siebel’s  song  in 
“ Faust  ” in  a very  loud  but  very  melancholy  voice. 

After  that  afternoon  in  Mrs.  Briggs’  kitchen,  Miss  Lang- 
ton  and  Mr.  Cooke  were  very  good  friends.  Annie  found 
in  him  just  the  same  boyish  high  spirits  which  had  made 
William  such  a delightful  companion,  while  the  fact  of  his 
being  well  educated  and  witty  gave  him  a charm  in  which 
the  Braithwaites  were  one  and  all  sadly  deficient.  So  that 
it  gradually  came  to  be  a matter  of  course  that  he  should 
find  out  what  was  worth  seeing  about  each  town  which 
the  company  visited,  and  that  he  should  then  take  her  to 
see  it,  and  that,  if  they  were  in  sentimental  mood,  they 
should  unite  in  conjuring  up  pictures  of  the  olden  time  in 
the  ruined  abbeys  and  crumbling  walls  they  inspected; 
while,  if  they  felt  inclined  to  scoff  at  antiquity,  they 
laughed  together.  The  half-tender  tone  of  deference  which 
gradually  grew  up  in  his  manner  to  her  did  not  cause 
Annie  the  least  uneasiness.  She  looked  upon  him  as  a uni- 
versal lover,  who  could  not  keep  sentiment  quite  out  of 
his  intercourse  with  any  woman,  and,  if  any  one  had  told 
her  that  Aubrey  Cooke  was  growing  seriously  in  love  with 
her,  and  that  her  friendly  manner  was  encouragement, 
she  would  have  been  very  much  amused  at  the  suggestion. 

But  Aubrey  had  in  truth  grown  quite  conscious  of  the 
fact  that  this  capricious  little  woman,  with  her  alternate 
fits  of  cold  shyness  and  madly  high  spirits,  who  could 
parry  his  nonsense  with  nonsense  just  as  wild  one  moment, 
and  the  next  hold  her  own  in  a serious  discussion,  had  a 
charm  for  him  which  made  all  other  women  seem  insipid 
in  his  eyes.  She  was  lovely  to  him;  even  when  her  little 
brown  face  looked  colorless  and  unattractive  to  others,  it 
was  full  of  pathetic  interest  to  him;  when  she  was  looking 
her  best,  when  the  wind  had  brought  the  bright  hue  of 
health  to  her  cheeks  and  her  eyes  were  sparkling  with  fun 
or  easily  roused  excitement,  he  could  not  take  his  own 
vacuous  light-blue  eyes  off  her  face.  If  his  face  had  been 
more  expressive,  she  could  not  have  failed  to  discover  that 
his  interest  in  her  was  deeper  than  was  safe  for  his  own 
peace  of  mind;  but  unluckily  Aubrey’s  features  were  the 
most  perfect  mask  ever  worn  by  a man  whose  feelings 
were  in  reality  as  keen  as  his  intellect. 

Time  after  time  he  had  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would 
propose  to  her  at  such  a time,  at  such  a place.  For  it  had 
come  to  this,  that  he  felt  he  must  make  her  promise  to  be 


112 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


his  wife,  if  she  would,  before  this  tour  was  over.  But, 
whenever  the  moment  came  which  he  had  looked  upon  as 
propitious  for  the  plunge,  his  heart  failed  him,  or  she 
would  be  in  the  wrong  mood,  too  friendly  or  too  satirical, 
and  the  question  had  to  be  put  off.  After  all,  there  was 
no  need  to  hurry  matters;  there  were  some  weeks  of  the 
tour  to  run  yet,  and  in  the  meantime  their  intercourse  was 
delightful,  and  in  the  awful  possibility  of  her  saying  “ No  ” 
there  would  be  an  end  of  even  that. 

And  there  was  a burden  on  his  mind  which  he  was 
anxious  to  find  an  opportunity  of  removing.  It  concerned 
Colonel  Richardson  and  the  interest  Miss  Langton  took  in 
that  handsome  Lovelace.  He  made  himself  an  opportu- 
nity rather  clumsily.  They  were  reading  an  epitaph  of 
the  usual  order  on  some  man  who  seemed  to  have  had 
all  the  virtues,  to  have  been  beloved  and  respected  by 
everybody,  and  to  have  made  a blank  in  the  universe  by 
his  death. 

“He  was  too  perfect,”  said  Aubrey.  “I  suppose  his 
widow  put  up  this  as  a salve  to  her  conscience  after  worry- 
ing her  husband  to  death.” 

“ Well,  perhaps  she  really  thought  it.” 

“ Perhaps.  In  that  case  he  must  have  been  a handsome 
scamp,  a sort  of  Colonel  Richardson,”  he  hazarded,  watch- 
ing her. 

“You  should  not  take  it  for  granted  that  all  women  like 
scamps.” 

“All  women  seem  to  like  Colonel  Richardson.” 

“Well,  he  is  nice!  He  knows  just  how  to  treat  them, 
to  be  interesting  and  amusing  without  making  love  to 
them.” 

“Oh,  I beg  your  pardon!  I should  not  have  been  so 
rash  as  to  sneer  at  him  if  I had  known  he  was  so  lucky  as 
to  have  such  a strong  advocate  in  you,”  said  Aubrey,  out 
of  temper. 

“Advocate?  What  nonsense!  He  has  plenty  without 
me.” 

“ That  is  why  I am  surprised  to  find  you  worshiping  at 
such  a general  shrine.” 

“Worshiping!  Really,  Mr.  Cooke,  you  are  quite  rude.  ” 

“I  did  not  mean  to  be,  I assure  vou.  I only  envy  him 
his  luck.” 

And  Aubrey  stalked  off  over  the  old  tombstones  and 
began  digging  out  bits  of  moss  from  a wall  with  the  end  of 
his  cane,  too  angry  to  trust  himself  to  say  any  more. 

“Good-bye,  Mr.  Cooke;  I am  going  home!”  sung  out 
Annie;  and,  before  he  had  made  up  his  mind  whether  his 
dignity  would  allow  him  to  follow  her,  she  had  left  the 


A VAGRANT  WIFE.  113 

churchyard  and  disappeared  from  his  sight  behind  the 
wall. 

That  decided  him,  and  in  a few  strides  he  was  out  of  the 
gate  and  crying  humbly  from  behind  her. 

“ Miss  Langton,  aren’t  you  coming  to  have  another  of 
those  tarts  you  liked  so  much,  as  we  arranged?” 

“Not  if  you  are  going  to  stalk  off  to  the  other  side  of 
the  road  if  I happen  to  say  something  you  don’t  agree 
with.” 

“I  beg  your  pardon.  I am  in  a bad  temper  this 
morning,  I suppose.  I will  agree  with  everything  you 
say.  I think  Colonel  Richardson  is  the  nicest  man  I 
know.” 

“Then  there  we  sha’n’t  agree,”  said  Annie,  smiling; 
“ for,  although  I think  his  manner  is  good,  I don’t  much 
care  about  him.” 

“ Don’t  you?”  interrogated  Aubrey,  delightedly ! “I’m 
so  glad ! Do  you  know,  I didn’t  think  he  was  the  kind  of 
man  you  would  like  much.  Then  you  said  what  you  did 
only  to  tease  me?” 

“Did  I?”  said  Annie,  surprised  that  he  should  make 
such  a fuss  about  a trifle.  ‘ ‘ I don’t  think  I did.  1 say, 
shall  we  stay  here  next  week,  as  we  are  not  going  to 
York?” 

“No;  we  are  going  out  of  our  route  a little.  The  gov- 
ernor has  got  us  a week  at  Beckham.” 

“ Beckham!”  cried  Annie,  while  all  the  color  fled  from 
her  face. 

“ Yes.  Why,  what  is  the  matter?” 

“Nothing,”  said  she,  in  her  usual  voice,  but  the  color 
did  not  come  back  to  her  cheeks. 

Now,  Aubrey  knew  very  well  that  “ nothing  ” would  not 
affect  Miss  Langton  as  that  mere  mention  of  a place  had 
done;  but  he  saw,  toe,  that  she  did  not  intend  to  give  him 
a truer  answer.  It  was  not  difficult  to  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  there  were  unpleasant  associations  connected 
in  her  mind  with  the  place  to  which  they  were  going;  and, 
after  long  deliberation,  he  made  up  his  mind  definitely 
that  Beckham  should  be  the  place  where  he  would  at  last 
screw  up  his  courage  to  the  point  of  asking  her  to  be  his 
wife. 

“If  she  likes  me — and  I think— I almost  think  she  does  ” 
— he  reflected  that  night — “why,  my  proposal  will  be  the 
very  best  thing  to  drive  any  unhappy  recollections  of  the 
place  out  of  her  head.  If  she  won’t  have  me — well,  there 
is  a river  at  Beckham!” 

With  which  dark  suggestion  Aubrey  blew  out  his  candle 
and  went  to  sleep. 


114 


A VAGRANT  WIFE , 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Annie  felt  half  inclined  at  first  to  request  the  manager, 
on  the  plea  of  illness,  to  let  his  niece,  who  was  her  “un- 
derstudy,” play  her  parts  for  the  week  the  company  were 
to  spend  at  Beckham,  and  take  her  chance  of  his  allowing 
her  to  rejoin  them  at  the  next  town  they  visited.  The  in- 
competent little  niece  was  eager,  as  Annie  knew,  for  such 
a chance,  and  there  would  probably  be  little  difficulty  as 
far  as  that  part  of  the  matter  was  concerned. 

But,  besides  the  fact  that  she  could  ill  afford  to  lose  even 
one  week’s  salary  and  risk  the  canceling  of  the  rest  of  her 
engagement,  she  felt  sure  that  there  was  one  person  whom 
the  plea  of  illness  would  in  no  way  deceive.  Aubrey 
Cooke’s  attention  had  already  been  awakened  to  her  re- 
luctance to  visit  Beckham,  and  he  was  far  too  sharp  a 
young  man  not  to  be  dangerous  if  she  were  to  give  him  in- 
voluntarily a clew  to  a secret  she  did  not  want  to  trust 
him  with. 

And  the  secret  of  her  marriage  she  wished  to  keep  from 
all  her  present  associates.  The  miserable  tie  seemed  to 
be  less  binding  when  all  around  her  were  ignorant  of  it. 
For  a long  time  she  had  almost  forgotten  it  in  the  unfet- 
tered life  she  had  led  since  she  left  Garstone ; but  the  re- 
membrance of  it  had  begun  lately  to  irritate  her  strangely. 
There  was  now  nothing  on  earth  she  dreaded  so  much  as 
the  possibility  of  her  husband’s  finding  her  out,  and  in  a 
fit  of  capricious  obstinacy  or  tyranny  insisting  on  her  re- 
turn to  him.  The  thought  of  being  again  at  the  mercy  of 
that  ignorant,  drunken  boy  filled  her  with  a disgust  which 
was  now  not  even  mingled  with  pity.  And  she  was  to 
be  brought  against  her  will  to  the  very  town  which  he  and 
his  brothers  visited  almost  daily. 

But,  after  long  reflection,  she  decided  that  the  risk  ot 
her  being  recognized  in  Beckham  was  not  so  great  as  she 
had  pictured  it  to  be  in  her  first  terror  at  the  thought  of 
going  thither.  The  families  living  round  about  Beckham, 
as  is  usually  the  case  with  country  towns,  very  seldom 
visited  the  theater— the  Braith waites  never.  Upon  Wil- 
liam’s authority,  she  was  so  much  altered  that,  with  the 
help  of  a veil  and  other  such  simple  disguises,  she  might 
pass  unrecognized  even  by  people  among  whom  she  had 
lived.  When  the  young  men  from  the  Grange  came  into 
Beckham,  they  were  almost  always  on  horseback  or  driv- 
ing, so  that  it  would  be  easy  for  any  one  on  foot  to  avoid 
them;  and,  above  all,  she  was  on  the  alert  to  escape  them, 
while  they  had  not  the  least  suspicion  of  her  coining.  In 
the  town  itself  there  was  very  little  fear  of  her  being 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


115 


recognized  by  the  inhabitants.  She  had  not  been  in  it 
much  at  any  time,  and  was  very  little  known  there.  The 
mere  change  of  name  would  be  enough  to  prevent  their 
identification  of  “Miss  Lane”  or  “Mrs.  Harold  Braith- 
waite  ” with  “ Miss  Langton.” 

So,  when  the  company  arrived  at  Beckham,  Annie  was 
still  with  them.  No  one  noticed  any  difference  in  her 
manner  from  her  usual  rather  stolid  composure,  when 
she  stepped  with  the  rest  on  to  the  platform  at  the  sta- 
tion which  had  more  than  one  moving  memory  for  her, 
except  Aubrey  Cooke,  who  watched  her  narrowly,  and  at 
once  decided  that  she  had  been  there  before.  She  was  too 
wise  to  deny  it  when  he  asked  her  carelessly  whether  she 
knew  the  place,  and  then  she  set  herself  to  the  task  of 
finding  longings  as  near  as  possible  to  the  theater.  She 
succeeded  in  engaging  suitable  rooms  in  a back  street 
within  a few  minutes’  walk  of  it;  and  she  was  growing 
secure  in  her  incognito  when  they  had  played  for  two 
nights  and  she  had  seen  no  signs  of  the  Mainwarings  or 
the  Braithwaites,  when  an  incident  happened  which 
brought  her  into  contact  with  the  one  she  most  dreaded 
to  meet,  with  quite  unforeseen  consequences. 

Aubrey  had  not  yet  found  the  golden  opportunity  he 
sought,  for  Annie  declared  that  there  was  nothing  in  the 
least  interesting  to  be  seen  in  Beckham  or  round  about  it; 
and,  the  weather  being  wet  and  cold,  she  seized  upon  this 
excuse  to  decline  walks  with  him.  The  third  day  of  their 
stay  was  the  fifth  of  November,  and  a friend  of  the  man- 
ager had  invited  some  of  the  members  of  the  company  to 
some  simple  festivities,  which  included  a bonfire  and  fire- 
works, after  the  performance.  On  the  same  night,  Miss 
West,  the  leading  lady,  had  invited  Aubrey  to  supper, 
and,  on  his  pleading  a previous  engagement,  she  said  to 
him  with  some  pique  and  in  no  very  subdued  tones  that 
she  knew  whose  charms  outweighed  those  of  any  society 
she  could  offer  him,  and  warned  him  emphatically  that 
the  pleasures  he  preferred  were  far  more  dangerous  than 
those  he  rejected. 

“ Your  little  prude  will  throw  you  over  some  fine  morn- 
ing when  you  least  expect  it.  1 know  what  those  quiet 
little  women  do.  And  you  won’t  be  able  to  console  your- 
self so  quickly  for  her  defection  as  I can  myself  for 
yours.” 

And  Miss  West  marched  away  to  bestow  the  charms  of 
her  racy  speech  and  artistic  complexion  where  they  were 
better  appreciated.  For  indeed  Aubrey  Cooke’s  indiffer- 
ence to  her  rather  overpowering  fascinations  had  become 
very  marked  since  he  had  found  metal  more  attractive  in 
Miss  Langton,  whose  promised  presence  at  the  house  he 


116  A VAGRANT  WIFE. 

was  going  to  visit  that  night  had  more  charm  for  him  than 
fireworks. 

The  lady  and  gentleman  who  gave  this  entertainment 
were  delighted  with  the  good  nature  of  Mr.  Cooke  and  the 
two  brother- actors  of  his  who  were  present,  when  they 
took  the  rockets  and  catherine-wheels  out  of  the  clumsy 
hands  of  the  coachman  and  superintended  the  exhibition 
themselves,  to  the  great  delight  of  the  children,  who  had 
been  put  to  bed  and  then  pulled  out  again,  a few  hours 
later  to  enjoy  these  midnight  festivities.  But  the  young 
men  certainly  condescended  to  enjoy  themselves  at  least 
as  much  as  the  children,  and  Aubrey  in  particular  fired 
squibs  and  burned  his  fingers  and  his  clothes  with  great 
spirit.  When  at  last  the  bonfire  was  lighted  and  the 
whole  party  jumped  and  whooped  round  it,  and  even  the 
most  timid  were  excited  to  stir  the  burning  twigs  with  a 
pitchfork  and  then  run  screaming  away,  Aubrey  had  time 
to  sneak  round  to  Miss  Langton’s  side  and  pay  her  the 
grateful  attention  of  putting  into  her  hands  an  old  garden- 
rake  which  he  had  hunted  out  on  purpose  for  her ; and 
they  tossed  the  blazing  boughs  together;  and,  as  the  lurid 
light  shone  on  her  face,  and  she  hopped  about  over  smol- 
dering branches  and  expiring  squibs  with  the  help  of  his 
friendly  hand,  he  felt  that  the  moment  was  come.  In  the 
excitement  and  hurly-burly  which  were  going  on  around 
them,  nobody  noticed  the  tenderness  with  which  he  drew 
her  back  a few  yards  from  the  bonfire,  on  the  darker  side 
of  it,  when  her  foot  turned  over  on  a glowing  twig. 

“ Take  care;  you  are  getting  tired..  You  must  not  play 
any  more  now,”  said  he  gently. 

‘ k Let  me  go  back  and  give  it  just  one  more  toss,  ’ ’ pleaded 
she  earnestly  but  meekly.  Annie  had  the  charm  of  al- 
ways yielding  to  any  assumption  of  authority  in  small 
things  very  submissively. 

“No,  I cannot  allow  it.  This  jumping  through  the  fire 
is  a heathenish  custom  highly  unbecoming  in  an  enlight- 
ened young  lady  of  the  nineteenth  century.” 

“Oh,  yes,  it  meant  something,  didn’t  it?”  cried  she,  in- 
terested. “ The  Canaanitish  children  were  passed  through 
the  fire  to  propitiate  Moloch.  And  I have  heard  of  a lot 
of  Irish  and  German  superstitions  about  bonfires.” 

“Yes,  they  are  all  about  luck  and  love.  If  you  want  to 
see  whether  your  love  will  be  fortunate,  you  set  a blazing 
hoop  rolling  down  a hill,  and,  if  it  reaches  the  bottom  still 
alight  and  is  not  caught  by  any  obstacle,  then  you  know  she 
loves  you  back.” 

“Where  did  you  find  out  that?  Have  you  ever  tried 
it?”  she  asked  lightly. 

“ No,”  said  he,  in  a whisper;  “ I should  not  dare.  ” 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


117 


They  were  both  silent  for  a moment;  the  fire  had  fallen 
into  mere  smoke  and  blackness  on  the  side  near  where 
they  stood,  and  they  could  not  see  each  other’s  faces.  But 
Annie  heard  the  quick,  loud  breathing  of  the  man  beside 
her,  she  could  see  him  bending  down  over  her  with  one 
hand  seeking  hers,  and  a terrible  fear  leaped  up  suddenly 
in  her  heart,  as  she  moved  quickly  away  from  him  with  a 
low  sound  that  was  almost  a cry  of  pain. 

Aubrey  stood  still,  without  attempting  to  follow  or  de- 
tain her.  She  could  not  have  misunderstood  him,  and  she 
shrunk  away ; that  was  enough  for  him.  It  was  a very 
hard  and  very  unexpected  blow ; he  had  by  no  means  felt 
over  confident  of  his  success  with  her,  but  at  the  worst  he 
had  counted  upon  her  giving  him  a hearing,  and  this  ab- 
rupt repulse  stung  him  to  the  quick. 

He  did  not  stand  there  long  watching  the  flickering  light 
and  shadow  cast  by  the  burning  pile  in  front  of  him.  He 
sprung  through  the  fire  into  the  middle  of  the  group  of 
howling,  delighted  children;  and  took  his  place  as  the 
moving  spirit  of  the  throng  with  greater  zeal  than  ever. 

And,  when  they  had  all  grown  weary,  and  had  burned 
their  clothes  and  scorched  themselves  as  much  as  they 
would,  and  the  dying  bonfire  was  at  last  left  to  the  men- 
servants  to  rake  out,  and,  the  children  having  been  sent  to 
bed,  the  rest  sat  down  to  supper,  Aubrey  Cooke  was  the 
wittiest  there  as  he  had  been  the  most  active  outside,  and 
he  gave  to  Annie’s  watching  eyes  only  this  one  sign  that 
she  had  wounded  him — he  did  not  look  at  her. 

When  they  brdke  up,  between  two  and  three  o’clock 
in  the  morning,  the  two  other  actors  and  the  other  actress 
who  had  come  left  Miss  Langton  as  a matter  of  course  to 
the  care  of  Aubrey.  But  she  slipped  past  him  and  went  on 
by  herself.  He  did  not  attempt  to  overtake  her,  but  fol- 
lowed at  a short  distance,  in  case  she  should  be  frightened 
by  a stray  drunken  rough  in  going  through  the  narrow 
streets  which  led  to  her  lodging. 

She  was  just  in  front  of  the  house  where  Miss  West 
lodged,  when  the  door  opened  and  two  or  three  gentle- 
men came  down  the  steps.  The  foremost,  who  was  walk- 
ing very  unsteadily,  staggered  against  her  as  he  was  turn- 
ing round  to  speak  to  his  companions.  She  | gave  a 
frightened  cry,  and  rushed  past  him  in  terror.  As  she 
heard  first  a laugh  and  then  a man’s  footsteps  behind  her, 
she  broke  into  a run,  but  stumbled  against  the  curbstone 
of  the  pavement  as  she  went  over  a crossing,  with  the  man 
close  upon  her.  He  caught  her  when  her  foot  slipped ; and 
then,  as  she  turned  round  sharply,  she  suddenly  gave  a 
startled  cry  and  clung  to  his  arms,  sobbing  out : 

“You,  Aubrey!  Thank  Heaven  1” 


118 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


“ My  dear  child,  who  did  you  think  it  was?” 

“I  thought  it  was  that  tipsy  man!”  she  whispered, 
shuddering. 

“The  clumsy  brute  didn’t  hurt  you,  my  darling,  did 
he,  when  he  ran  up  against  you?  I would  have  punched 
his  head ” 

“No,  no,  no!”  she  cried,  clinging  to  him  again,  in  fear 
of  his  returning.  “ He  didn’t  hurt  me  at  all;  he  scarcely 
touched  me.  But  I thought  it  was  he  who  was  running 
after  me,  and  I was  frightened.” 

4 ‘ That  is  all  because  you  were  a silly  girl  and  were  too 
proud  to  let  me  see  you  home.  It  is  a ‘ judgment.’  Why, 
you  are  shaking  all  over  still!  I didn’t  think  you  were 
such  a little  coward!” 

He  soothed  her  tenderly,  with  a very  happy  remem- 
brance of  her  delight  in  recognizing  him,  and  of  the  im- 
pulsive closing  of  the  little  hands  on  his  arm.  He  began 
to  think  that  repulse  of  a few  hours  before  might  be  dif- 
ferently construed;  she  could  not  have  smiled  up  more 
than  gratefully  into  his  face  as  she  was  doing  now  if  he 
had  been  repugnant  to  her.  Other  women  might,  but  not* 
Annie  Langton. 

And  Aubrey  was  right.  She  had  felt  just  what  her 
face  expressed,  that  the  one  person  in  the  world  whose 
presence  inspired  her  with  perfect  confidence  had  sud- 
denly appeared  at  the  very  moment  when  she  dreaded  the 
approach  of  the  person  she  most  feared  to  meet. 

For,  in  the  half  tipsy  man  who  had  staggered  down 
from  Miss  West’s  door  and  reeled  against  her,  Annie  had 
instantly  recognized  her  husband  He  had  not  known 
her,  he  had  scarcely  seen  her,  for  the  little  figure  had 
flown  past  almost  before  he  had  recovered  his  balance ; but 
in  the  first  moment  of  terror,  Annie  imagined  that  he  had 
seen,  known,  and  was  pursuing  her. 

She  walked  on  with  Aubrey  very  quietly,  very  silently, 
her  hand  on  his  arm  and  his  hand  on  hers,  listening  to  his 
gentle,  playful  scolding  with  a little  laugh  now  and  then, 
but  without  speaking  much,  satisfied  that  she  was  safe 
with  him,  and  that  she  need  not  talk  to  show  him  that 
she  felt  so.  When  they  came  to  her  door,  she  disengaged 
her  hand  and  held  it  out  while  bidding  him  “ Good -night  ” 
with  a smile  that  made  Aubrey  bold.  He  took  her  hand 
in  his,  passed  his  other  arm  round  her,  saying,  in  a quick, 
jerky  whisper  : 

“ Annie,  you  do— you  will  trust  yourself  to  me,  won’t 
you?” 

There  was  no  eloquence  in  his  speech;  but  for  once  his 
light  eyes  spoke  very  plainly,  his  voice  broke  into  tender- 
ness. Annie  trembled.  Her  eyes,  as  they  met  his,  shone 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


119 


with  a light  he  had  never  seen  in  them  before.  But  before 
he  could  speak  again,  before  he  could  draw  her  into  his 
arms,  the  light  had  faded.  She  gave  him  one  look  so 
wildly,  unutterably"  sad  that  he  never  forgot  it;  then, 
with  bent  head,  she  slipped  gently  out  of  the  grasp  of  Ids 
arm  and  turned  to  the  door.  She  could  not  see  the  look, 
for  the  tears  were  gathering  in  her  eyes.  After  a few  mo- 
ments, Aubrey,  who  had  stood  behind  her  without  speak- 
ing, took  the  key  from  her  shaking  hand  and  opened  the 
door  for  her. 

“Thank  you,  Aubrey.  Goodnight,”  said  she,  in  a 
quavering  voice,  without  looking  up. 

“ Good  night,  darling!”  he  whispered  back,  managing  to 
give  one  last  despairing  squeeze  to  the  little  fingers  before 
she  shut  the  door. 

He  went  home  to  his  lodgings  utterly  bewildered,  but 
resolved  to  get  from  her  the  next  day  some  explanation  of 
her  extraordinary  treatment  of  his  advances.  She  had 
certainly  understood  him.  She  had  at  first  repelled,  then 
encouraged  him.  He  had  seen  in  her  eyes  the  very  look 
he  had  wished  to  call  up  in  them,  and  the  next  minute  it 
had  changed  to  an  expression  of  plaintive  misery  and  re- 
gret which  had  chilled  his  hopes  even  as  they  rose. 

But  the  next  day,  when  he  called  upon  her,  he  was  told 
Miss  Langton  was  not  well,  and  could  not  see  any  one. 
He  knew  very  well  that  she  was  only  putting  him  off,  and 
he  made  up  his  mind  that  at  night  she  should  not  escape 
him.  She  took  care  however  not  to  be  caught  alone,  and 
her  share  in  the  performance  was  nearly  over  before  Au- 
brey, always  on  the  watch,  saw  Miss  Montrose,  who  had 
been  standing  at  the  side  with  her,  go  upon  the  scene  at 
her  cue  and  leave  Annie  by  herself  at  last.  Then  she 
heard  his  voice  behind  her;  she  could  not  escape  now,  for 
before  long  she  would  hear  her  own  cue,  and  must  be  on 
the  watch  for  it. 

“Good-evening,  Miss  Langton.” 

“Oh,  good-evening,  Mr.  Cooke!”  She  gave  him  her 
hand ; it  was  trembling  a little,  and  she  did  not  look  up 
into  his  face. 

“I  have  not  had  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  you  be- 
fore. You  will  let  me  see  you  home?” 

“Not  to-night;  I have  promised  to  go  to  supper  with 
Miss  Norris.” 

“You  are  putting  me  off,  I see.  Is  it  fair,  Annie?  Is  it 
right?  Am  I not  worth  an  answer?” 

“An  answer  to  what?” 

‘ ‘ To  what  I said  to  you  last  night.  You  cant’t  have  for- 
gotten so  soon.  If  I were  a stranger,  if  I were  the  most 
contemptible  wretch  living,  if  you  had  always  treated  me 


120 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


with  open  dislike,  you  could  not  have  misunderstood  or 
forgotten  what  I said  to  you  last  night.” 

Annie  turned  and  looked  up  at  him,  pale  under  her 
rouge. 

“ I have  not  forgotten,  nor  understood— at  least,  I think 
not.  I thought  you  too  would  have  understood— that  I 
tried  to  avoid  you,  because  I feared,  I knew  my  answer,  if 
I must  answer,  would  give  you  pain.” 

“ Then  you  don’t  like  me?” 

A ray  of  vehement  passion  flashed  from  her  dark  eyes. 
“ Don’t  torture  me!  You  know  I like  you;  but  I can’t 
—I  can’t  do  more!  I don’t  know  whether  I have  done 
wrong — I never  meant  to  lead  you  to  feel  like  this.  How 
could  I go  on  avoiding  you  when  I was  lonely  and  you 
were  kind?” 

“ Why  should  you  avoid  me?  Why  should  you  not  love 
me?” 

She  did  not  answer;  but  there  was  no  mistaking  the 
misery  on  her  face  for  coquetry  or  caprice. 

“Are  you  bound  by  some  other  engagement,  Annie?” 
She  shuddered.  Before  he  could  speak  again,  she  turned 
quickly  to  him. 

“Don’t  ask  me  any  more;  believe  what  I say,  that  I am 
suffering  more  than  you  can,  and  it  is  my  own  fault.  I 
am  bound  by  an  engagement  in  which  love  is  out  of  the 
question,  and  always  must  be.  What  love  is  to  most 
women  ambition  is  to  me.” 

“ Do  you  mean  that  you  will  marry  for  ambition?  You, 
Annie?  Wait,  wait  a little  for  me;  I will  get  on— I can — 
I’m  not  a fool ” 

“ Hush!”  said  Annie  sharply.  “ It  is  impossible;  I can 
never  marry  you ! You  are  only  torturing  me,  and  all 
to  no  end.  1 cannot  marry  you;  I cannot  love  you!” 
“You  could  if  you  would,  Annie.  I could  make  you 
love  me;  you  are  always  happy  when  you  are  with  me.” 
His  words  moved  her,  and  she  stopped  him  abruptly. 
“Happy?  Yes,  for  the  time.  We  have  been  good 
friends,  that  is  all.  But  there  is  something  more  in  life 
than  you  can  give  me.” 

“ What  is  there?” 

“Fame,  position,  the  means  of  getting  on.” 

“ Is  that  what  you  care  for  most?” 

“What  if  it  is?” 

“It  is  not;  but,  if  it  were,  I would  get  those  for  you 
easily  enough.” 

She  laughed,  but  not  merrily. 

“ I think  you  overestimate  your  powers.” 

Aubrey’s  face  looked  in  that  moment  as  if  carved  in 


A VAGRANT  WIFE.  121 

wood,  save  for  the  steady  shining  of  his  light  eyes.  He 
said,  quietly: 

“ Oh,  I do,  do  I?  Well,  you  shall  see.  ” 

They  were  both  silent  for  a few  moments,  and  then 
Annie  heard  her  cue  and  went  on. 

This  conversation  took  place  on  a Thursday  evening,  and 
during  the  next  two  days  Annie  avoided  Aubrey  still,  and 
he  did  not  again  seek  an  interview  with  her,  but  contented 
himself  with  simple  greetings,  and  with  watching  her  quite 
unobtrusively.  She  missed  his  companionship  keenly,  far 
too  keenly.  She  did  not  dare  to  leave  the  house  all  day, 
fearing  as  much  to  meet  him  as  to  meet  any  of  the  Braith- 
waites,  yet  holding  her  breath  when  there  was  a knock  at 
the  front  door,  in  the  hope  that  he  at  least  had  come  to 
ask  after  her.  But  he  did  not  come.  On  Saturday  night, 
as  she  was  leaving  the  theater,  Aubrey  came  out,  followed 
by  a boy  carrying  his  portmanteau.  For  the  first  time  for 
three  days,  he  ran  after  her. 

“Good-bye,  Miss  Langton;  I am  going  to  town.” 

Annie  started. 

“ What ! You  are  going  away?” 

“ Only  till  Monday.  I am  going  on  business.  You  will 
wish  me  good  luck?” 

“ With  all  my  heart!” 

He  wrung  her  hand  and  ran  on  without  a word.  They 
could  not  trust  themselves  to  speak  again.  The  next  day 
Annie  left  Beckham  with  the  rest  of  the  company. 

On  Monday  night  they  met  once  more  at  the  theater. 
Aubrey  was  looking  paler  and  plainer  than  usual,  and  gave 
as  a reason  for  his  altered  appearance  that  he  had  not  been 
to  bed  for  the  last  two  nights. 

“May  I see  you  home  to-night,  Miss  Langton?”  asked 
he,  as  soon  as  he  found  a chance  of  speaking  to  Annie. 
“ I will  not  say  a word  that  could  offend  you.  I will  not 
touch  upon  the— the  forbidden  topic,”  he  whispered,  ear- 
nestly. 

Annie  could  not  refuse;  but  it  was  hard  work  for  her  to 
hide  her  agitation — and  her  pleasure — when  she  once  more 
found  him  waiting  for  her  that  night  at  the  stage  door, 
and  slipped  her  hand  falteringly  within  his  proffered  arm. 
She  had  no  need  to  be  afraid ; his  manner  was  as  cool  and 
composed  as  if  she  had  been  his  grandmother,  and  piqued 
her  into  similar  calmness. 

“ I thought  you  would  like  to  know  how  I got  on  in 
town,”  said  he  at  once,  in  the  most  matter-of-fact  tone. 
“ I went  up  about  a London  engagement — at  the  Regent’s 
Theater— and  I’ve  got  it!” 

“ I’m  so  glad,”  said  Annie,  coolly. 


m 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


“ Well,  that  is  not  all.  I’ve  got  an  offer  [of  an  engage- 
ment  there  for  you  too.” 

“Not  really?” 

“I  have,  though.  I knew  there  was  a part  in  the  piece 
they  are  going  to  play  which  would  suit  you  down  to  the 
ground,  so  I mentioned  that  there  was  a lady  of  remark- 
able promise  in  the  company  I was  in,  and  said  just  what 
I knew  would  attract  attention  about  you;  and  it  happens 
that  the  manager  wants  some  one  for  the  part  I have  in 
my  eye,  and  I think  you  are  pretty  sure  to  get  it  if  you 
write.  ’ ’ 

“ Oh,  Mr.  Cooke,  I don’t  know  how  to  thank  you!”  said 
Annie,  in  wild  delight,  for  more  than  one  reason. 

“Don’t  mention  it,  Miss  Langton,”  said  Aubrey,  in  his 
old,  deferential  manner;  then  he  turned ^the  conversation. 
“ I met  an  old  favorite  of  yours  last  night— Gibson — at  Mrs. 
Falconer’s.” 

“ Oh ! How  is  the  beauty?” 

“ Well,  she  affects  great  distress  about  one  of  her  broth- 
ers, who  is  ill,  and  not  expected  to  live.  It  appears  he  fell 
down  as  he  was  getting  into  a dog-cart,  awfully  tight,  last 
Wednesday  night.  But  I don’t  think  she  is  as  much  af- 
flicted as  she  would  be  if  mourning  didn’t  suit  her  com- 
plexion. And,  though  she  mentioned  that  he  was  quite 
alone,  she  did  not  suggest  going  to  nurse  him.” 

“ Did  she  mention  the  name  of  the  brother?”  asked 
Annie,  quite  quietly. 

“Yes;  she  called  him  ‘ poor  Harry.’  ” 

Annie  heard  without  giving  one  sign  that  the  news 
moved  her.  For  the  rest  of  the  walk  she  spoke  little,  and 
with  an  effort.  At  her  door  he  was  struck  by  the  marked 
constraint  of  her  manner  as  she  bade  him  good-bye. 
When  she  had  unlocked  the  door  and  he  had  turned  away, 
she  said : 

“Whatever  you  hear  of  me,  remember  I am  not  un- 
grateful.” 

When  Aubrey  got  to  the  theater  on  the  following  even- 
ing, he  found  that  the  manager’s  niece  was  to  play  Miss 
Langton’ s part,  and  learned  that  the  latter  had  thrown  up 
her  engagement  and  had  already  left  town. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

The  news  of  her  husband’s  illness  had  fallen  like  a knell 
on  Annie’s  ears;  for  in  a moment  she  saw  that  the  bright 
vision  of  pleasure  and  satisfied  ambition  which  Aubrey’s 
words  about  a London  engagement  in  the  same  theater 
with  him  had  called  up  could  not  be  indulged  in,  except  at 
the  sacrifice  of  an  unmistakable  duty.  It  was  her  husband 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


m 


who  lay  ill,  neglected  and  solitary.  For  one  moment  she 
tried  to  stifle  conscience  by  saying  to  herself  that  she  did 
not  know  where  he  was;  but  then  she  felt  ashamed  of  the 
flimsy  excuse,  for  she  could  not  doubt  that  he  was  at  Gar- 
stone  Grange.  Aubrey  had  said  that  it  was  on  Wednes- 
day night  that  the  accident  had  happened  to  him,  and  it 
was  on  Wednesday  night  that  she  herself  had  seen  and 
even  touched  him  in  the  streets  of  Beckham.  She  must  go 
to  him,  and  at  once,  before  Aubrey  could  guess  her  secret, 
before  she  herself,  in  an  unguarded  moment,  should  let 
him  know  how  much  this  separation  would  cost  her.  She 
dared  not  trust  herself  to  think  what  a great  part  of  the 
fact  of  his  being  engaged  at  the  same  theater  had  had  in 
her  joy  at  the  prospect  of  playing  again  in  London ; it  was 
a dangerous  subject,  and  she  shunned  it  instinctively. 
She  tried  to  keep  her  thoughts  fixed  on  this  one  simple 
idea— she  must  go  to  Garstone,  nurse  her  husband  through 
his  illness,  bear  his  brutal  temper  and  thankless  snubs  as 
best  she  might,  and  then  slip  back  quietly  into  her  free 
stage  life  once  more,  taking  her  chance  of  getting  a town 
engagement. 

So,  on  the  morning  after  her  talk  with  Aubrey,  she  got 
the  manager  to  cancel  the  rest  of  her  engagement,  and, 
having  packed  her  trunk  the  night  before,  she  left  for 
Beckham  within  an  hour  of  his  releasing  her.  She  looked 
restlessly  and  eagerly  from  the  windows  of  the  cab  as  she 
drove  to  the  station  “to  see  if  any  of  the  company  were 
about.”  At  last  she  caught  sight  of  Aubrey  Cooke  going 
down  a street,  with  his  back  to  the  cab,  therefore  so  that 
he  could  not  see  her ; and  after  that  she  looked  out  no 
more,  but  sat  with  burning  cheeks  and  her  eyes  fixed  on 
the  front  seat  of  the  cab,  all  curiosity  and  interest  gone 
out  of  her. 

She  got  to  Beckham  at  three  o’clock  in  the  afternoon, 
and  drove  straight  to  the  Grange,  which  she  reached  be- 
fore the  dark  November  day  had  closed.  To  her  surprise, 
the  man-servant  who  opened  the  door  recognized  her  at 
once. 

To  her  questions  he  replied  that  Mr.  Harold  was  being 
nursed  by  the  housekeeper,  that  Lady  Braithwaite  and 
Mr.  Stephen  were  abroad,  Sir  George  was  in  town,  Mr. 
Wilfred  in  Leicestershire,  and  Mr.  William  somewhere— 
he  did  not  know  where — “ studying.” 

Annie  then  asked  to  see  the  housekeeper,  and  learned 
from  her  that  Harry’s  accident  was  indeed  as  serious  as 
Aubrey  Cooke’s  words  had  implied.  He  had  slipped  as  he 
was  getting  into  the  dog-cart,  one  night  after  supping  with 
some  friends  in  Beckham— Annie  happened  to  know  some- 
thing about  those  friends— and  the  wheel  had  passed  over 


124 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


him  and  broken  his  left  arm,  besides  inflicting  other  less 
serious  injuries;  he  had  not  yet  quite  recovered  from 
another  illness,  and  had  been  disregarding  his  doctor’s 
orders.  After  being  taken  to  a surgeon  by  the  gentleman 
who  was  with  him,  to  have  his  arm  set,  he  had  insisted  on 
being  driven  back  home  to  the  Grange  at  five  o’clock  in 
the  morning.  The  housekeeper  continued  that  he  had 
then,  contrary  to  the  advice  she  had  ventured  to  give  him, 
insisted  upon  drinking  brandy  in  the  billiard-room ; that 
she  had  waited  about,  not  daring  to  go  in  and  speak  to 
him  again,  until  she  heard  a fall  and  a groan,  and,  running 
in,  had  found  that  he  had  fallen  and  again  displaced  his 
broken  arm.  She  had  got  him  to  bed  with  the  help  of  the 
men-servants  and  sent  for  the  doctor ; but  no  skill  could 
prevent  inflammation  of  the  wounded  limb,  and  he  was 
now  lying  in  a high  fever  and  could  recognize  no  one. 

‘‘I  would  strongly  advise  you  not  to  see  him,  ma’am, 
until  he  is  quieter.  He  is  very  violent,  and  he  uses  dread- 
ful language.” 

“I  don’t  suppose  he  says  anything  worse  than  what  I 
have  heard  him  say  when  he  was  in  full  possession  of  his 
senses,  Mrs.  Stanley,”  said  Annie,  quietly.  “ It  is  not 
fair  that  all  the  care  of  nursing  my  husband  should  fall 
upon  you;  so,  if  you  please,  I will  go  to  him  now.” 

Mrs.  Stanley  led  the  way  to  the  room  to  which  they  had 
carried  him — not  his  own,  but  a larger  and  more  conven- 
ient one.  She  drew  the  arm  of  the  young  wife  through 
her  own  as  they  entered,  for  Annie  had  grown  very  white 
and  was  shaking  from  head  to  foot  when  her  husband’s 
voice,  speaking  disjointedly  to  an  imaginary  listener,  met 
her  ear.  She  recovered  her  self-command  before  ventur- 
ing to  look  at  him;  but,  however  strong  her  emotion 
might  have  been,  it  would  not  have  affected  him.  He 
took  no  notice  of  her  presence;  his  wide-open  eyes  did  not 
even  see  her. 

Annie  did  not  give  way  again ; but  from  that  hour  she 
took  her  place  by  his  bedside  alternately  with  Mrs.  Stan- 
ley, listening  to  idle  babblings  of  his  useless  vicious  life,  to 
invectives  against  the  carelessness  of  grooms,  the  mean- 
ness of  his  brother  George,  the  “airs  Sue  gave  herself.” 
But  there  was  never  one  word  of  herself;  she  had  passed 
out  of  his  life;  been  forgotten,  as  if  those  few  months  of 
their  married  life  had  never  been.  Only  once  did  he  refer 
to  her,  and  that  was  not  to  Annie,  his  wife,  but  to  Miss 
Lane  of  Garstone  Grange. 

“Saw  the  pretty  little  governess  going  to  church;  felt 
half  inclined  to  go  too,  just  to  look  at  her,”  he  murmured 
once  while  she  sat  by  his  bedside  listening.  But  then  he 
rambled  off  into  talk  which  concerned  a dog  he  had 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


125 


bought,  and  Susan  Green,  the  blacksmith’s  daughter,  and 
let  fall  some  epithets  which,  it  occurred  to  Annie,  would 
apply  particularly  well  to  Miss  West,  at  whose  house  he 
and  his  companions  had  been  supping  on  the  Wednesday 
night,  or  rather  Thursday  morning,  when  she  had  run 
against  him  in  Beckham  Street,  and  when  he  had  met  with 
his  accident. 

It  was  a hard  punishment  for  the  weakness  of  marrying 
him  and  the  fault  of  leaving  him  that  she  was  suffering 
now,  as  she  listened  to  his  wandering  talk  about  other 
women,  which  showed  his  contempt  for  a sex  he  did  not 
understand,  or  think  worth  the  trouble  of  trying  to  under- 
stand. And  all  the  while  she  had  to  try  to  overcome  the 
disgust  with  which  he  inspired  her  and  the  longing  to  be 
again  in  the  society  of  one  man,  one  brilliant,  interesting 
companion,  for  whom  every  word  she  uttered  had  a charm, 
every  action  of  hers  was  right. 

When  Mrs.  Stanley  took  her  place  in  the  sickroom,  she 
would  fly  like  an  escaped  bird  out  of  doors,  and  wan- 
der through  the  fields  and  the  now  leafless  copses  by  her- 
self, rejoicing  in  her  temporary  freedom,  trying  to  for- 
get the  horrible  fact  that  she  was  married,  and  the  very 
existence  of  that  unconscious,  senseless  clog  upon  her  life 
that  she  had  left  in  the  darkened  room  up-stairs.  These 
rambles  brought  almost  as  much  pain  as  pleasure  to  her; 
they  recalled  to  her  so  vividly  the  long  marauding  expedi- 
tions she  had  had  with  William,  when  they  used  to  return 
home  laden  with  birds’  eggs  and  ducks’  feathers,  and 
moss-covered  twigs,  all  of  which  William  had  to  carry  as 
soon  as  they  got  near  the  house,  for  fear  any  of  the  house- 
hold should  think  that  Mrs.  Harold  Braithwaite  was  so 
childish  as  to  care  for  such  rubbish.  Harry  had  been 
merely  an  every-day  trial  then,  to  be  shirked  as  much  as 
conscience  permitted ; now  he  had  become,  and  by  her  own 
fault,  an  obstacle  to  her  happiness  which  there  was  no  pos- 
sibility of  removing. 

She  had  returned  to  the  sickroom  one  afternoon  to  re- 
lieve the  housekeeper,  and,  finding  that  Harry  was  sleep- 
ing quietly — a fact  which  made  her  a little  nervous,  as  it 
proved  he  was  getting  better — she  opened  a book  and  set- 
tled herself  in  an  arm-chair  by  the  nre,  whence  she  could 
see  any  movement  of  the  invalid’s  by  merely  raising  her 
eyes.  The  book  was  George  Sands’  “ Consuelo.”  Opening 
it  at  first  carelessly,  the  earliest  pages  fixed  her  attention, 
and  before  long  she  bent  over  it,  completely  absorbed  in 
the  fascinating  story. 

She  did  not  see  the  sick  man’s  eyes  open,  fall  upon  her, 
and  remain  fixed,  at  first  vacantly,  then  intently,  upon  her 
bent  head.  She  did  not  even  notice  the  slight  sound  ho 


126 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


made  as  he  struggled  to  raise  himself  on  his  elbow,  nor  the 
faint  gasp  of  astonishment  he  gave  when,  having  suc- 
ceeded, he  had  satisfied  himself  that  it  was  his  long-forgot- 
ten wife. 

“ Annie  !”  he  exclaimed,  in  a voice  hoarse  with  weakness 
and  with  no  warmer  emotion  than  amazement. 

She  looked  up  and  said  “Harry!”  with  just  the  same 
amount  of  tenderness. 

“Why  are  you  here?”  he  asked  curiously,  as  he  fell 
weakly  back  upon  his  pillow. 

“ Why,  to  nurse  you,  of  course!”  said  she  in  a soft  voice, 
rising  at  once  without  any  noise  or  bustle,  but  in  a quietly 
matter-of-fact  manner. 

She  came  to  the  bed,  arranged  his  pillow  more  comfort- 
ably, raised  his  head,  and  gave  him  something  to  drink, 
while  he  stared  at  her  silently  and  received  her  attentions 
without  any  remark,  until  she  quietly  went  back  again  to 
her  arm-chair  and  “Consuelo.”  Still  he  gazed  at  her 
fixedly,  and,  as  she  opened  the  book  at  the  right  place, 
which  she  had  been  careful  not  to  lose  on  hearing  her  hus- 
band address  her  for  the  first  time  after  nearly  four  years’ 
separation,  he  said: 

“You’ve  gone  off  shockingly!” 

“Yes,  I know  I have,”  said  Annie,  quite  calmly,  put- 
ting her  finger  on  the  line  she  had  come  to  as  she  looked 
up.  “But  you  had  better  not  talk  now,”  she  added,  coax- 
ingly ; “ it  is  very  bad  when  you  are  still  so  weak.” 

Down  went  her  head  again;  but,  with  characteristic 
tact,  he  insisted  on  continuing : 

“ I don’t  think  I ever  saw  anybody  so  much  altered.  I sup- 
pose that  is  why  you  have  come  back.  You  found  nobody 
else  would  admire  you  any  longer,  so  it  was  time  to  come 
and  saddle  yourself  on  your  husband.” 

Instead  of  being  stung  to  the  quick  by  this  reproach, 
which  was  meant  to  be  very  severe,  Annie  had  some  dif- 
ficulty in  repressing  an  impulse  to  laugh;  but  she  only 
said,  soothingly: 

“It  is  all  right,  Harry;  I am  going  away  again  as  soon 
as  ever  you  are  well.  I’ll  turn  away  so  ’’—and  she  moved 
the  chair  round  to  face  the  fire — “and  then  you  won’t 
be  annoyed  by  the  sight  of  my  ugly  face.” 

She  went  on  reading,  or  pretending  to  read,  for  some 
minutes,  until  her  husband’s  voice  once  more  interrupted 
her. 

“A  fine  lot  of  affection  you  seem  to  have  for  me  now 
you  have  come  back ! I dare  say  you  wish  I was  dead 
all  the  time.  Never  even  asking  me  how  I feel!  What 
did  you  come  at  all  for?” 


A VAGRANT  WIFE.  127 

Annie  put  down  her  book  again,  and  came  toward  the 
bed. 

“ I didn’t  think  it  was  good  for  you  to  talk  just  at  first. 
I thought,  if  I sat  quite  quietly,  you  would  go  to  sleep 
again.” 

“No,  you  didn’t;  you  wanted  to  read  your  book.  What 
is  it?” 

“ It  is  a French  book  called  ‘ Consuelo.’  ” 

“French!  Oh,  of  course — something  too  learned  for 
me!” 

“ It  is  not  learned  at  all.  I’ll  translate  it  to  you  if  you 
like;  but  I don’t  think  you  would  care  much  about  it.” 

“Oh,  no;  it  would  be  over  my  head,  of  course!” 

His  voice  was  growing  very  feeble  and  husky.  Annie 
poured  some  medicine  into  a glass  and  brought  it  to  him. 

“Now,”  said  she,  coaxingly,  as  she  slipped  her  hand 
under  his  pillow  to  raise  his  head,  “you  had  better  drink 
this,  and  then  lie  still  for  a little  while.  You  are  not  very 
strong  yet,  you  know.” 

“ I sha’n’t  drink  it— I won’t  have  that  vile  stuff  poured 
down  my  throat!”  said  he,  in  a weak,  dogged  whisper. 

“ You  had  better  take  it.  Can’t  you  feel  how  weak  your 
voice  is  getting?”  said  Annie,  persuasively. 

“ I won’t  take  that,  I tell  you ! That  won’t  do — do  me — 
any  good!  Fetch  me  some  brandy-and  soda.” 

“ No,  I can’t  do  that;  it  wouldn’t  be  good  for  you.” 

“ Do  you  hear  what  I say?  Fetch  me  some  brandy-and- 
soda!” 

He  made  a feeble,  spasmodic  effort  to  knock  the  glass 
out  of  her  hand ; but  she  held  it  out  of  his  reach,  and,  lay- 
ing his  obstinate  head,  which  she  was  still  supporting, 
gently  dosvn  on  the  pillow  again,  she  put  the  medicine 
down  on  the  fable. 

“Don’t  you  mean  to  obey  me?  I won’t  drink  your 
filthy  poisons!  If  you  want  to  get  rid  of  me  you  had 
better  doctor  some  brandy  for  me,  and  then  perhaps  I’ll 
take  it.” 

“ The  brandy  by  itself  would  be  poison  to  you  now,  with- 
out my  doctoring,”  said  Annie,  quietly.  “As  soon  as  you 
are  well  again  you  can  drink  what  you  like,  you  know; 
and  the  more  faithfully  you  follow  the  doctor’s  orders  now, 
the  sooner  you  will  be  able  to  drink  as  much  brandy  as 
you  please.” 

She  said  it  in  a very  soft,  gentle  voice ; but  she  could  not 
quite  keep  the  scorn  she  felt  for  him  out  of  the  last  words. 
Weak  tears  of  impotent  anger  gathered  in  Harry’s  eyes. 

“You  treat  me  like  a dog!  A fine  make-believe  your 
wifely  duty  is.  When  I’m  well  again  I’ll  turn  you  out  of 
the  house  at  an  hour’s  notice — that  I will!” 


128 


A VAGRANT  WIFE * . 


She  saw  that  he  was  exciting  himself  dangerously ; and 
fearing  the  effects  of  this  emotion  upon  him  in  his  weak 
state,  she  took  the  hand  he  was  convulsively  clinching  on 
the  bedclothes  in  one  of  hers,  and  putting  her  lips  to  it, 
said,  in  the  most  winning  tone  the  actress  could  assume: 
“My  poor  dear  Harry,  I would  give  you  what  you  want 
if  I dared;  and  when  the  doctor  comes,  I will  ask  if  you 
may  have  it.  And  I will  go  away  when  you  like;  but  you 
will  let  me  stay  until  you  are  well,  won’t  you?” 

Harry  was  touched  "by  this  unexpected  appeal. 

“All  right;  you  may  stay,”  he  murmured  magnan- 
imously. 

“ And  won’t  you  let  me  give  you  your  medicine?  I’ll 
drink  some  of  it  first,  if  you  like,  to  show  you  it  isn’t 
poison.” 

“No,  that  is  only  nonsense.  I’ll  take  it,”  whispered 
the  grumpy  invalid,  conquered ; and  when  he  had  drank 
it,  and  she  laid  his  head  gently  down  again,  he  said, 
“ Thank  you.  You  may  kiss  me  if  you  like,  old  girl.” 
Annie  availed  herself  of  this  permission— not  enthusias- 
tically, but  still  not  without  a touch  of  tenderness;  and  she 
sat  in  the  chair  by  the  bedside  until  he  went  quietly  off  to 
sleep  again. 

The  next  few  conversations  she  had  with  her  husband, 
who  got  better  rapidly  with  the  careful  nursing  he  re- 
ceived, were  after  the  same  pattern — a little  wrangle,  with 
taunts  and  sneers  on  his  side,  and  careless  submission  on 
hers,  followed  by  a sort  of  tame  reconciliation.  Before 
long  she  had  managed,  by  a firm  refusal  to  do  anything 
which  she  did  not  think  good  for  him  and  a very  gentle 
manner,  to  get  the  upper  hand  of  the  obstinate  invalid; 
and,  when  Mrs.  Stanley  had  a tussle  with  him  on  account 
of  his  unwillingness  to  have  his  wounds  dressed  or  to  take 
his  medicine  at  the  proper  hours,  she  always  went  to 
Annie  to  get  over  the  difficulty.  Sometimes  during  a bat- 
tle with  the  housekeeper  he  would  say : 

“ Well,  send  Annie,  then,  and  perhaps  I’ll  have  it  done.” 
This  flattering  preference  was  received  by  its  object 
with  anything  but  gratitude.  To  be  called  up  from  her 
sleep  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  or  to  be  sent  for  in  the 
course  of  a meal,  because  “Mr.  Harold  says  he  won’t  take 
any  slops,  ma’am,  unless  you  come  and  see  that  his  beef- 
tea  isn’t  hot  enough  to  scald  his  throat,”  did  not  fill  her 
with  any  pride  in  this  rise  in  her  husband’s  esteem.  At 
last,  one  night,  when  he  was  fairly  on  the  road  to  conva- 
lescence, she  flatly  refused  to  go  when  Mrs.  Stanley  came 
to  say  Mr.  Harold  would  not  let  her  dress  the  wound  on 
his  shoulder,  but  wanted  his  wife  to  do  it. 

“ Tell  him  I say  you  can  do  it  much  better  than  I,  Mrs, 


a vagrant  wife. 


128 


Stanley;  and,  if  he  won’t  let  you  do  it,  he  must  wait  till 
to-morrow  morning,”  said  the  undutiful  wife  sleepily,  as 
she  turned  over  and  shut  her  eyes  again. 

The  next  morning  Harry,  who  was  to  go  down  stairs  fof 
the  first  time  that  day,  bounced  over  on  his  side  away 
from  her  as  soon  as  she  entered  his  room  and  came  up  to 
the  bedside.  Annie  walked  softly  toward  the  door ; then 
the  invalid,  who  had  recovered  much  of  the  power  of  his 
lungs,  roared: 

‘ k Stop ! Where  are  you  going?” 

“I  am  going  to  breakfast,”  said  she,  calmly. 

“Without  even  wishing  me  good-morning!  After  re- 
fusing point-blank  just  to  step  along  the  corridor  in  the 
night  when  I might  have  been  dying!  You’re  a nice 
wife!” 

“Now,  look  here,  Harry ; I don’t  pretend  to  do  more  than 
just  my  simple  duty  to  you,  and  don’t  for  a moment  set 
myself  up  for  a model  wife.” 

“ I should  think  not  indeed ! Everybody  would  laugh  if 
you  did.” 

“ Everybody  would  laugh,  as  you  say,  if  I pretended  to 
showr  any  affection  for  a husband  so  selfish  that  he  will 
break  a night’s  rest  of  a very  good  nurse — I have  been 
that,  remember — on  the  most  trifling  pretexts.  I dare 
say  you  think  it  an  honor  to  choose  me  instead  of  Mrs. 
Stanley  to  put  on  a poultice  or  arrange  a bandage;  but  I 
assure  you  it  is  one  I don’t  appreciate.  You  are  nearly 
well  now,  and  the  task  I set  myself  of  seeing  you  through 
your  illness  is  over.  My  presence  can  only  irritate  you 
now,  and  I think  of  taking  the  hint  you  have  often  given 
me,  and  going  to-day.” 

“ Go?  What— leave  me  here  all  alone  when  I’ve  shown 
you  I like  to  have  you  near  me?  All  right — go  along  then, 
you  hard,  heartless  vixen!  No,  no,”  he  called,  as  she 
turned  again  toward  the  door— “Annie,  Annie,  I didn’t 
mean  it — I’m  not  ungrateful—  I have  been  selfish!  Don’t 
go  till  I’m  quite  well;  don’t  leave  me  all  alone,  Annie,  till 
1 can  get  about  again ! I like  to  hear  your  voice;  and  you 
move  so  quietly,  and  you  talk  so  prettily — I’m  always  dull 
when  you’re  out  of  the  room— I’m  sorry  I’ve  been  so  cross. 
Don’t  go,  Annie,  till  I’m  quite  well.  Wait  till  next  week. 
Won’t  you  wait  just  till  next  week,  Annie?” 

She  came  back  to  his  side  again,  looking  very  grave. 

“Look  here,  Harry,”  she  said;  “you  are  well  enough 
now  for  me  to  speak  to  you  seriously,  as  I could  not  speak 
when  you  were  lying  there  likely  to  die.  You  have  been 
very  rude  tome  and  ungracious,  considering  that  I came 
simply  to  do  my  best  to  get  you  *well  quickly.  Now  the 
duty  I set  myself  is  over,  and  I assure  you,  strange  as  it 


130 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


may  seem  to  you,  I feel  no  irresistible  wish  to  stay  here 
a moment  longer  than  is  necessary.  If  you  wish  me  to 
stay  here  still  and  do  my  best  to  amuse  you  until  you  are 
strong  enough  to  amuse  yourself  again,  I will  do  so,  on  one 
condition.  It  is  that  now  you  will  drop  the  tone  of  child- 
ish insolence  to  me  which  I have  excused  on  account  of 
your  illness,  and  speak  to  me  as  other  men  speak  to  their 
wives— no  better  than  that,’7  she  added,  with  a slight 
shade  of  irony. 

“So  you  want  to  preach  and  domineer  over  me,5’ pro- 
tested Harry,  rather  sulkily,  “just  because  I said  I didn’t 
mind  your  being  in  the  room.  Yes,  yes,  I will  be  civil,” 
he  added  hastily,  as  Annie’s  head  moved  away;  “I  didn’t 
mean  to  be  rude  to  you : I really  am  grateful  for  the  way 
you  have  taken  care  of  me.  Only  don’t  speak  to  me  in 
that  hard  voice:  just  say  something  in  your  soft,  pretty 
way,  and  I shall  come  round  directly.  You  always  get 
over  me  when  you  speak  in  your  soft  voice,  you  know.” 

“ Well,  then,  may  I go  to  breakfast,  Harry?”  said  she, 
smiling,  and  taking  the  hand  he  involuntarily  stretched 
toward  her. 

“ Yes,  yes ; I won’t  be  selfish  again.  Kiss  me  first,”  said 
the  invalid,  in  a more  contented  tone. 

And  Annie  put  her  lips  lightly  to  his  forehead  and  left 
the  room.  It  was  very  tiresome  that  she  should  have  to 
delay  her  departure  from  the  Grange  for  this  whim  of  her 
capricious  husband.  She  hoped  that  she  might  be  able  to 
leave  in  a day  or  two,  especially  as  George  was  expected 
at  the  Grange;  and,  if  she  were  to  remain  until  his  arrival, 
she  knew  well  that  she  would  find  it  difficult  to  get  away. 
For  she  could  not  fail  to  see  that,  while  she  had  lost  the 
first  freshness  of  her  beauty,  she  had  acquired,  by  her  early 
encounters  with  the  world  and  by  contact  with  the  wits  of 
the  green-room,  other  charms  of  even  greater  power,  which 
a man  of  Sir  George’s  type  would  be  likely  to  rate  highly 
— especially  in  the  country,  where  women  who  can  talk 
are  rare.  She  had  no  longer  the  least  fear  of  him,  and  she 
only  dreaded,  in  worldly-wise  feminine  vanity,  not  his  at- 
traction for  her,  but  hers  for  him. 

For  the  longing  to  be  again  at  work  in  her  profession 
was  strong  upon  her,  and  an  unacknowledged  wish  to  see 
that  member  of  it  whom  she  liked  best  was  stronger  still. 
She  knew,  too,  that  these  few  days  of  delay  in  returning 
to  London  might  make  the  difference  between  her  obtain- 
ing or  losing  all  chance  of  the  engagement  Aubrey  Cooke 
had  spoken  of  to  her.  Her  excitement  and  impatience 
grew  so  high  as  she  thought  the  matter  over  during  her 
solitary  breakfast,  that  ghe  felt  obliged  to  throw  a shawl 
round  her  and  rush  into  the  open  air  to  calm  the  fever 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


131 


Tising  within  her  before  returning  to  her  peevish  lord  and 
master  up- stairs.  How  could  she  induce  him  to  let  her  go 
at  once,  without  exciting  the  spirit  of  contradiction  in  him 
which  would  make  him  tease  her  to  stay  because  he  saw 
she  wished  to  go?  She  had  turned  reluctantly  toward  the 
house  again,  and  was  going  in-doors  to  Harry,  who  would 
probably  be  dressed  and  up  for  the  first  time  since  his  ill- 
ness now,  when  a wild  but  delighted  shout  from  the  gate 
frightened  her.  She  saw  a tall  figure  racing  over  the 
lawn  toward  her,  and  in  another  minute  she  was  in  Will- 
iam’s frantic  embrace. 

He  lifted  her  off  her  feet,  he  made  little  rushes  at  her, 
he  danced  round  her  with  savage  cries,  he  showed  ecstasy 
in  every  uncivilized  and  unheard-of  way,  asking  her  when 
she  had  come  and  why  she  had  not  written  to  tell  him. 

“ I didn’t  know  where  you  were,  William,  my  dear  boy,” 
said  Annie.  “ Did  you  know  I was  here?” 

“ Rather!  What  do  you  think  I’ve  come  for  except  to 
see  you?  And  I saw  George  in  town  yesterday,  and  I’ve 
told  him,  and  he  is  coming,  and  Wilfred  and  everybody; 

and  we’ll  have  the  whole  place  lit  up,  and Hooray! 

I must  give  you  another  hug!” 

He  was  suiting  the  action  to  the  word  when  the  window 
of  Harry’s  room,  which  was  on  that  side  of  the  house,  was 
thrown  sharply  up  by  the  invalid,  who  was  sitting  by  it, 
and  his  angry  and  no  longer  weak  voice  called  out: 

“ Be  off ! Leave  her  alone,  you  impudent  young  scamp! 
Annie,  come  here ; I want  you.  Why  have  you  been  so 
long  gone?  You  don't  care  what  happens  to  me!” 

4 ‘I’m  coming,”  said  Annie,  resignedly. 


CHAPTER  XYI. 

Annie  soon  found  herself  in  a difficult  position  between 
the  brother-in-law  she  liked  and  the  husband  she  disliked. 
William  was  always  wanting  her  to  be  out  of  doors  with 
him,  Harry  teased  her  with  sulky  reproaches  if  she  was 
away  from  him  for  more  than  half  an  hour  at  a time.  The 
invalid  came  down  to  the  drawing-room,  which  was  well 
warmed  and  cheerful,  on  the  second  day  after  William’s 
arrival,  leaning  on  his  brother’s  arm.  The  ascendency 
over  him  which  Annie  had  gained  in  the  sick-room  she  man- 
aged to  maintain  still;  and  the  artless  William  would 
make  gestures  of  admiration  and  astonishment  at  Harry’s 
docility  to  her  from  behind  her  husband’s  back,  and  there 
was  much  unpleasantness  on  one  or  two  occasions  when 
his  brother  caught  him.  William  also  made  himself  ob- 
noxious by  calling  Harry  “the  Ogre,”  sometimes  out  of 
hearing  of  his  elder  brother  and  sometimes  within,  and 


V62 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


by  assuming  an  intimate  knowledge  of  Annie’s  movements 
during  the  four  years  of  lier  absence  from  the  Grange, 
which  Harry  of  course  did  not  possess. 

In  these  early  days  of  her  return  Annie  put  off  questions 
about  the  way  in  which  she  had  occupied  those  four  years, 
and  left  Harry  to  imagine  that  she  had  supported  herself 
by  teaching.  Her  skill  in  conversational  fence  being  much 
greater  than  that  of  either  of  her  companions,  she  could 
always  lead  the  talk  into  what  channel  she  would;  but  it 
was  growing  a delicate  matter  to  avoid  collision  between 
Harry  and  William,  each  of  whom  considered  himself  to 
have  an  exclusive  right  to  her  attention,  when  the  situation 
was  changed  by  the  arrival  on  the  same  day,  though  not 
by  the  same  train,  of  Wilfred  and  Sir  George. 

William  was  dispatched  by  Annie  to  Beckham  in  the 
dog-cart  to  meet  his  eldest  brother,  and,  when  he  was 
gone,  Harry,  who,  under  his  wife’s  care,  was  getting  rap- 
idly through  his  convalescence,  fidgeted  about  the  room, 
and  at  last  knocked  over  a gypsy-table  covered  with 
trifles. 

“All  right,  Harry;  I’ll  pick  them  up,”  said  Annie,  hear- 
ing a muttered  oath  from  her  husband. 

“ What  are  you  in  such  a hurry  for?  I do  hate  a woman 
to  be  in  a hurry,”  said  he,  testily,  noticing  unusual  haste 
in  his  wife’s  movements  as  she  knelt  on  the  floor  gather- 
ing up  the  things  his  clumsiness  had  scattered. 

“ It  is  getting  very  late,  and  I must  dress  for  dinner  now 
George  is  coming  back.” 

Harry  flung  himself  into  a chair  and  scowled  at  her. 

“ Oh,  all  this  fuss  for  George!  Your  appearance  didn’t 
matter  for  me,  I suppose?  I’m  only  your  husband!” 

“ My  dear  Harry,  if  you  will  take  the  trouble  to  think 
you  will  see  that,  as,  sincg  you  have  been  ill,  you  have 
not  had  late  dinner,  I have  not  insulted  you  by  changing 
my  gown  to  see  you  eat  toast  and  mutton-broth  in  your 
dressing-gown.  Besides,  I should  like  to  hide  the  falling 
off  in  my  looks  which  you  were  kind  enough  to  tell  me  of 
from  George,  who  will  not  hurt  my  vanity  by  mentioning 
it,  if  he  does  notice  any  great  change.” 

“ Look  here,  Annie!  I didn’t  want  to  hurt  your  feelings; 
I didn’t  think  you  were  vain;  and — and — do  you  know — 
I really — I think  sometimes,  when  you  tell  us  anything  to 
make  us  laugh,  for  instance,  you  look  prettier  than  you 
ever  did.  You — you  look  so  mischievous,  and  your  eyes 
sparkle  so,  you  make  one  want  to  kiss  you — only  then — 
then,  somehow,  you  never  seem  to  want  to  be  kissed— at 
least  not  by  me!”  he  added,  testily. 

Annie  burst  out  laughing,  a little  constrainedly  perhaps. 

“^Yhy,  whom  should  I want  to  kiss  me  except  my  hus* 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


133 


band?’’  said  she,  carelessly,  as  she  bent  over  her  occupa- 
tion of  fitting  together  two  pieces  of  broken  Dresden 
china. 

“ I don’t  know,  I am  sure,”  said  Harry,  rather  sulkily, 
feeling  that  his  conciliatory  speech  had  not  met  with  the 
response  it  deserved — 4 4 George,  perhaps.” 

“ Why,  surely  you  are  not  jealous  of  George,  Harry!” 
she  cried,  laughing  more  naturally. 

“I  don’t  know  that  I’m  not;  but  it  wouldn’t  make 
much  difference  to  you  if  I was,  would  it?”  he  asked;  and, 
as,  for  one  moment,  she  did  not  answer,  he  walked,  with 
the  aid  of  the  intervening  chairs,  from  the  one  on  which 
he  was  sitting  to  one  beside  her,  and  laid  his  sound  arm, 
the  right,  on  her  shoulder.  “It  wouldn’t  make  any  dif- 
ference, would  it?”  he  repeated. 

Annie  looked  up  rather  mischievously. 

“ I don’t  think  it  would,  Harry.” 

This  was  a disconcerting  answer  to  a husband. 

“ Oh,  very  well!”  said  he,  gruffly,  after  a minute’s  pause. 
“ Then  I see  what  I am  to  expect;”  and  he  got  up  to  walk 
away  with  offended  dignity ; but,  not  having  recovered  his 
strength  yet,  and  having  tired  and  excited  himself  already 
that  afternoon,  he  staggered  before  he  had  gone  many 
steps,  and  immediately  he  found  his  wife’s  arm  in  his. 
“Thank  you,”  said  he,  haughtily;  then  he  added,  with 
the  air  of  a martyr,  “I’m  not  well  yet,  not  nearly  well; 
I’m  not  strong  enough  to  walk  steadily.” 

“Oh,  well,  Harry,  I’ve  seen  you  walk  just  as  unstead- 
ily when  you  were  quite  well!”  said  Annie,  dryly. 

Harry  snatched  his  arm  from  her,  and  fell  into  the  near- 
est chair,  flushing  violently. 

“Very  well,  ma’am;  you  call  me  a drunkard  now!  I 
shouldn’t  have  thought  any  woman  would  have  the  heart 
to  make  fun  of  a sick  husband ; but  you  don’t  care  for  any- 
thing as  long  as  you  can  laugh  and  scamper  about  the  gar- 
den like  a great  tomboy  with  that  infernal  long-legged 
idiot  William!  You  are  enough  to  make  any  husband 
drink,  just  to  forget  you,  you  unfeeling  little  creature, 
you!” 

“Come  now,  Harry,  I don’t  think  you  can  say  it  was  I 
drove  you  to  drink ; and  I think  you  would  have  forgotten 
me  pretty  quickly  even  without  that  assistance,”  said  she, 
passing  her  hand  soothingly  down  his  arm  and  speaking 
in  a caressing  voice,  the  charm  of  which  always  told  on 
him  when  she  chose  to  use  it.  “ You  know  very  well  that 
it  will  not  require  any  more  crimes  on  the  part  of  your 
wicked  wife,  for  instance,  to  induce  you  to  undo  all  the 
progress  you  have  made  toward  getting  well  during  the 


134  A VAGIZ  ANT  WIFE . 

last  few  days  by  sitting  up  to-night  drinking  with  George 
and  Wilfred.” 

“ And  what  do  you  care  if  T do?” 

“ It  is  no  affair  of  mine,  of  course,  and  I shall  not  annoy 
you  and  bring  down  a storm  upon  my  own  head  by  inter- 
fering. To  borrow  your  own  words,  it  would  make  no 
difference  if  I did.” 

“How  do  you  know  it  wouldn’t?  Don’t  I always  do 
what  you  wish?” 

. “ I think  the  temptation  to  do  what  I don’t  wish  will  be 
stronger  now  you  will  have  pleasanter  company  than  a 
faded  wife.” 

“ Whoever  called  you  ‘ faded’?  I never  did— you  know 
I never  did!  And  you  know  I like  your  company.  I 
never  knew  you  so  pleasant  before.” 

44  Oh,  you  don’t  think  me  pleasant  always!” 

“No;  because  you  say  such  nasty  things — things  you 
never  used  to  dare  to  say  when  I was  well.  Now  I’m  ill, 
you  think  you  can  say  anything,  because  I’m  not  strong 
enough  yet  to  think  of  anything  just  as  cutting  to  say 
back.  But  I’ll  pay  you  out  when  I get  well  again,  clever 
as  you  are.”  He  spoke  in  a rather  irritated  tone,  but  not 
ill-humoredly;  she  was  so  smiling,  so  careless,  that  he  was 
as  much  amused  as  annoyed  by  her. 

“ I sha’n’t  give  you  a chance,  because  I have  some  very 
important  business  in  London,  and  my  duty  as  your 
nurse  is  over,  and  to-morrow  I shall  go  to  town.” 

“ And  when  are  you  coming  back?” — excitedly. 

She  did  not  answer. 

44  When  do  you  mean  to  come  back,  I say?”  he  repeated, 
in  a louder  voice. 

Still  no  answer.  Harry  clutched  his  wife’s  arm. 

“Then  I shall  not  let  you  go!  You  are  not  my  nurse; 
you  are  my  wife,  and  I forbid  you  to  leave  me  again— do 
you  hear?  What  is  this  business  you  speak  of?  What  is 
it?  I have  a right  to  know— and  i will  know !” 

Annie  did  not  attempt  to  remove  her  arm  from  his 
grasp,  but  looked  slowly  up  at  him  with  a steady,  cold, 
firm  expression  in  her  dark  eyes,  which  silenced  him  even 
before  she  spoke : 

“You  have  a right  to  know,  and  you  shall  know.  I 
can’t  tell  you  all  now,  but  just  this.  For  four  years,  dur- 
ing which  you  never  took  the  trouble  to  find  out  whether 
I was  starving— and  I was  not  so  very  far  off  that  some- 
times— I have  been  working  to  lay  the  foundation  of  a ca- 
reer for  myself — an  honorable  career,  I need  not  say,  even 
to  you.  I have  been  put  back  a little,  just  as  I was  going 
to  make  a great  stride  forward,  by  coming  to  nurse  you. 
I have  fulfilled  that  duty  now,  and,  now  you  arc  well,  J 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


135 


Pi  in  only  wasting  my  time  here.  You  must  let  me  go.  I 
will  come  back  when  you  please,  if  I can,  and  I will  let 
you  know  everything  you  wish.  But  my  presence,  now 
you  are  all  going  to  be  together  again,  would  only  irritate 
you — already  it  seems  to  be  the  cause  of  your  quarreling 
with  William.  You  will  be  disgusted  again  with  my 
‘learned  airs,’  and  with  my  preaching— for  I shall  not  be 
~ able  to  keep  myself  from  uttering  useless  remonstrances 
when  I see  you  going  on  in  your  old  way,  as  I know  you 
will,  and  bringing  back  the  fever,  and  making  yourself  ill 
again ” 

“ But,  if  I make  myself  ill  again,  you  will  have  to  nurse 
me.” 

“Indeed,  you  are  mistaken!”  answered  Annie,  raising 
her  eyes  to  his  with  spirit.  ‘ ‘ If  now,  after  being  warned, 
you  choose,  rashly,  to  put  your  life  in  danger,  and  to 
undo  all  the  good  our  constant  watching  and  nursing 
have  done  you,  I shall  not  consider  myself  bound  to  sac- 
rifice myself  any  longer  to  a man  who  could  be  guilty  of 
such  foolish  and  selfish  conduct,  whether  he  is  my  husband 
or  not.” 

“ Then  you  would  leave  me  to  die  while  you  went  on 
enjoying  your  ‘career,’  as  you  call  it?” 

“I  would  leave  you  to  take  your  chance.” 

Harry  began  to  tremble  all  over,  and  the  tears  rose  to 
his  eyes.  His  hand  relaxed  its  hold  on  Annie’s  arm,  and 
fell  down  by  his  side. 

Softened,  frightened  by  the  effect  of  her  words,  Annie 
clasped  her  little  hands  on  his  shoulder,  and  told  him  not 
to  take  her  words  so  seriously,  that  she  had  spoken  them 
only  because  she  wanted  him  to  take  care  of  himself  and 
get  well  fast. 

“ No,  you  don’t— no,  you  don’t!  You  want  me  to  die, 
so  that  you  may  be  free!”  said  he,  in  a hoarse,  tremulous 
voice,  keeping  his  head  turned  away  from  her. 

Happily,  his  own  emotion  prevented  his  noticing  the  ef- 
fect of  his  words  on  Annie,  whose  cheeks  flushed  sud- 
denly, and  whose  tongue  faltered  as  she  was  about  to  in- 
terrupt him.  He  continued: 

“ I see,  I see!  You  want  me  to  drink  and  kill  myself,  or 
ruin  myself,  so  that  you  may  go  away  and  get  praised  for 
being  a martyr!  Go  away — go  away  from  me!  I don’t 
want  your  little  soft  hands  about  me,  when  all  the  while  I 
know  your  heart  is  hard  and  you  hate  me!”  said  he,  shak- 
ing her  off,  vehemently. 

Annie  rose  slowly,  and  walked  with  downcast  head 
toward  the  door.  But  she  had  not  shut  it  behind  her  be- 
fore  her  husband’s  voice  called  her  back. 


186 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


‘‘Annie,  Annie -come  here— only  one  minute!  I want 
to  speak  to  you !” 

She  returned,  and  stood,  with  her  eyes  still  down,  very 
jneekly  before  him. 

“ Annie,”  said  he,  stretching  forward  to  take  her  hand 
and  draw  her  toward  him,  “ I didn’t  mean  what  I said  just 
how,  I was  only  in  fun— at  least  I didn’t  think  what  I 
was  saying.  I— I wanted  to  see  if  you  would  believe  me. 
I know  you  don’t  want  me  to  die;  and  look  here— if  you 
will  promise  not  to  go  away  yet  I won’t  sit  up  with  George, 
and  I will  drink  only  just  what  you  let  me,  and  I’ll  do  just 
what  you  tell  me— till  I get  well.” 

Annie  shook  her  head. 

“I  will — I swear  it!  Now  you  will  stay,  won’t  you? 
Here— give  me  your  other  hand.  There ! I swear  to  do 
just  what  you  tell  me — till  I get  well.  Now  promise 
not  to  go  to  London.  No — you  swear,  too,”  said  he,  ea- 
gerly. 

‘ ‘ I promise ’ ’ 

“ No,  *swear.” 

“ I swear  not  to  go  to  London  till  you  are  quite  well,  if 
you  don’t  do  anything  rash.  There — I hear  the  dog-cart. 
Harry,  I must  go  to  the  door  to  meet  him.” 

“ Meet  who?” 

“ George,  of  course.” 

“ Confound  George !” 

But  Annie  was  already  out  of  the  room. 

She  was  flushed  with  the  excitement  of  the  successful 
battle  she  had  just  had  with  her  husband,  and  with  the 
other  excitement  of  meeting  her  eldest  brother-in  law, 
and  George  showed  nothing  but  pleasure  at  sight  of  her. 
They  came  into  the  drawing-room  talking  brightly,  and 
the  baronet  scarcely  exchanged  more  than  a couple  of  sen- 
tences and  a hand-shake  with  his  surly  brother,  so  pleased 
was  he  to  find  a pleasant  woman  again  in  his  house. 

When  Wilfred  arrived,  just  before  dinner,  he  in  his  turn 
engrossed  her  completely ; and  at  dinner  these  two  new- 
comers took  up  so  much  of  her  attention  that  the  convales- 
cent Harry,  who  was  at  dinner  with  the  rest  for  the  first 
time  since  his  illness,  began  to  look  very  black,  and  to  find 
fault  with  everything  which  was  put  before  him. 

“ I can’t  eat  that.  How  am  I to  hack  at  it  with  only 
one  hand?”  he  growled,  when  the  servant  offered  him 
some  mutton. 

“Shall  I cut  it  up  for  you,  sir?” 

“No,  I won’t  have  it;  I don’t  want  anything  at  all!” 
said  he,  looking  with  a frown  at  his  wife,  who  turned  from 
George  to  tell  the  servant  to  bring  the  plate  to  her,  and 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


137 


dutifully  cut  up  the  mutton,  which  her  sulky  husband, 
without  thanks,  then  condescended  to  eat. 

Annie  had  put  on  a very  pretty  pale  gray  silk  gown  with 
elbow-sleeves  and  square-cut  bodice  edged  with  dainty 
lace,  and  a long  spray  of  pink  azalea  fastened  carelessly 
on  one  side  of  the  neck.  She  was  delighted  at  the  pleas- 
ure they  all— except  her  morose  husband,  who  tried  hard 
not  to  laugh  when  his  brothers  did  at  any  speech  of  hers 
that  amused  them— evidently  took  in  her  society;  and  she 
smiled  and  laughed  and  chattered  and  looked  so  charm- 
ing that  not  one  of  the  men  could  keep  his  eyes  off  her  for 
more  than  a few  moments  at  a time. 

“Have  you  seen  anything  of  the  Mainwarings,  Annie?” 
asked  George,  when  dinner  was  nearly  over. 

“Oh,  yes!  I met  Mrs.  Main  waring  the  other  day  with 
a volume  of  ‘The  Band  of  Hope  Review ’—I  don’t  know 
whether  you  have  heard  of  it— under  one  arm.  She  said 
she  thought  of  coming  to  read  to  Harry,  if  he  would  like 
it,  to  cheer  him  up.” 

Something  in  Annie’s  demure  tone  set  them  all  laughing. 

“ I said  he  would  be  delighted;  but  we  didn’t  think  too 
much  excitement  was  good  for  him  just  at  first.  And  she 
asked  if  Sir  George  had  any  good  books  in  his  library , and 
I said,  ‘Oh,  yes!’  and  she  said  I ought  to  read  some  to 
him.  I said  I thought  I ought,  and  I came  back  and  read 
him  the  Sporting  Dramatic  Neivs  all  through.” 

“Oh,  Annie,  she  wouldn’t  have  you  back  in  her  school- 
room now !” 

“No,  indeed  she  would  not !”  answered  Annie  promptly. 

When  she  rose  to  leave  the  gentlemen,  there  was  a little 
anxiety  in  her  manner  as  she  glanced  toward  her  husband. 
He  was  sitting  with  his  eyes  fixed  doggedly  upon  his  plate, 
his  face  was  already  rather  flushed,  and  his  hand  was 
round  the  stem  of  a glass  of  Burgundy.  She  knew  how 
little  weight  a word  from  her  was  likely  to  have  now ; 
but  it  was  her  duty  to  try,  and  she  did  try.  As  she  passed 
him,  she  put  out  her  left  hand,  with  its  one  ring — her  wed- 
ding-ring, which  decorum  now  forced  her  to  wear — lightly 
on  his  shoulder,  and,  as  he  gave  no  sign,  she  bent  down 
and  slipped  the  slim  white  fingers  gently  up  to  his  neck. 
He  smelled  the  faint  perfume  of  the  azalea  on  her  breast, 
heard  her  quickened  breathing  as  he  still  hesitated. 

“ Do  you  remember?”  she  whispered  softly. 

He  raised  his  eyes,  sullenly  still,  to  the  little,  pleading 
face.  She  was  irresistible  at  that  moment,  with  her  smil- 
ing lips  and  her  sparkling  eyes,  her  head  a little  on  one 
side  in  entreaty.  There  came  a flash  from  his  eyes;  her 
womanly  fascination  had  won  from  him  what  bis  promise 


138 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


would  have  failed  to  get.  He  got  up,  and,  leaning  on  her 
slight  shoulder,  let  her  lead  him  out  of  the  room. 

Annie  was  so  much  pleased  with  this  unexpected  little 
triumph  that  her  bright  humor  infected  him  now  that  he 
was  alone  with  her;  and,  as  she  dragged  the  easiest  chair 
before  the  drawing-room,  fire  for  him,  she  chattered  on  so 
that  he  had  no  time  or  inclination  for  the  complaints  he 
was  going  to  make  against  his  brother  George’s  brutal 
indifference  to  his  illness.  He  was  much  annoyed  when, 
in  a very  short  time,  they  heard  the  dining-room  door 
open  and  the  voices  of  the  other  three  in  the  hall. 

6 ‘Hang  them  all!  They  make  so  much  noise.  Annie,  I 
think  I’ll  go  to  bed;  and  I want  you  to  come  and  read  to 
me.” 

But  George  had  heard  the  last  words  as  he  came  in. 

“No,  no,  Harry!  Go  to  bed  by  all  means,  if  you  will; 
but  you  mustn’t  make  a victim  of  Annie.  You  have  had 
my  Lady  Sunbeam  all  to  yourself  for  weeks;  you  must 
let  her  shed  a few  rays  on  the  rest  of  us  now.” 

Before  Harry  could  make  an  angry  reply,  Annie  broke 
in: 

“Harry  has  no  wish  to  deprive  you  of  such  a very 
simple  pleasure;  I will  shed  my  rays  upon  you,  as  you 
poetically  term  it,  by  playing  you  the  very  few  new  pieces 
I have  learned  since  you  last  heard  me,  George.  And, 
Harry,  you  are  feverish — you  had  better  not  stay  up ; I 
have  nothing  to  play  that  you  have  not  heard,  and  I will 
come  up  and  read  you  to  sleep  by  the  time  you  are  ready 
for  me.” 

She  rang  the  bell  without  giving  him  time  to  answer; 
and  Harry,  who  was  really  too  worn  out  to  make  much 
resistance,  grumblingly  went  off  with  the  servant,  who 
lent  a stout  arm  to  his  tottering  master. 

Annie  went  to  the  piano,  and  played  one  thing  after  an- 
other, and  sung  a French  song  which  they  only  half  un- 
derstood, but  which  sent  them  into  fits  of  laughter,  until 
George,  who  was  leaning  on  the  instrument,  grew  more 
interested  in  the  talk  he  was  having  with  her  than  in  the 
music;  and,  as  her  fingers,  from  idly  playing,  at  last  ceased 
altogether  and  lay  on  the  keys,  he  said  : 

“Come  into  the  conservatory.  You  love  flowers,  and 
there  you  will  let  me  smoke,  I know.” 

Annie  shook  her  head  reluctantly. 

“ I mustn’t.  I’ve  promised  Harry  to  read  to  him.  He 
will  be  past  being  read  to  and  do  nothing  but  growl  if  I 
delay  any  longer,”  said  she,  with  resignation,  as  she  rose 
slowly  and  shut  the  piano. 

“ How  you  have  managed  to  tame  the  bear,  though!” 
said  George,  admiringly,  f‘  Of  course  gratitude  or  courtesy 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


130 


is  out  of  the  question  with  him;  but  I thought  even  sub- 
mission was,  until  I saw  him  follow  you  out  of  the  dining- 
room to-night.  But  then  an  archangel  couldn’t  have  re- 
sisted you  as  you  looked  at  that  moment,”  continued  he, 
in  a low  voice,  bending  down  to  look  into  her  eyes.  44  It 
was  hard  to  see  a look  like  that  wasted  upon  such  a clod.” 
“ Do  you  think  so?”  said  Annie,  laughing  lightly,  as  she 
went  up-stairs  and  he  followed  her.  “ Why,  that  is  only 
the  old  story!  It  is  the  ‘ clods  ’ of  the  earth  who  get  the 
benefit  of  all  the  beauty  and  grace  and  pleasant  things  in 
the  world.” 

“ You  have  grown  cynical,  Annie.  Come  in  here  for  a 
few  minutes  and  explain  yourself.” 

He  led  the  way  into  the  dimly-lighted  picture-gallery, 
where  Annie  and  William  had  had  their  first  game  of  bat- 
tledoor  and  shuttlecock  four  and  a half  years  before.  She 
sunk  down  upon  the  cushioned  ottoman  to  which  George 
led  her,  and  looked  gravely  at  him  as  he  seated  himself 
beside  her. 

“ It  is  very  easy  to  explain,”  said  she.  “ Do  not  all  the 
people  who  spend  their  lives  in  the  practice  of  any  art, 
clever  people  generally,  and  capable  of  hard  thinking  as 
well  as  hard  living,  waste  their  efforts  for  the  careless  en- 
joyment of  others  who  have  not  half  their  brains,  or  their 
courage,  or  their  capacity?  The  rich  parvenu  who  doesn’t 
know  a Rubens  from  a Rembrandt,  patronizes  the  rising 
painter  and  delights  afterward  in  the  boast  that  he  4 made 
that  man,  sir.’  The  wise  man  writes  for  fools  to  read. 
And  the  actress  gives  days  of  study  to  her  share  in  a piece 
which  the  dressmaker  in  the  pit  condemns  as  4 very  poor 
stuff.  ’ It  is  always  the  same.  ” 

44  You  speak  very  bitterly.” 

44  Yes.  For  you  see  I range  myself  on  the  side  of  the 
hard-working,  capable  ones.  Don’t  you  know  how  I have 
spent  these  last  four  years?” 

44  No,  no;  do  tell  me,”  said  George,  with  a shrewd  guess 
at  her  answer,  bending  lower  over  her  in  his  interest. 

44 1 have  spent  them  on  the  stage.” 

“The  stage!”  echoed  another  voice. 

They  both  started  and  looked  round.  Behind  them, 
leaning  against  the  wall,  not  far  from  the  door,  was  Harry, 
in  his  dressing-gown,  pale,  heavy-eyed,  sullen.  He  looked 
at  his  wife  with  fierce  eyes  and  frowning  brows. 

44  So  you  are  an  actress!  I don’t  wonder  you  were 
ashamed  to  tell  me  how  you  passed  your  time.  ’ ’ 

44 1 was  not  ashamed,  Harry,”  said  Annie,  calmly,  rising 
and  going  toward  him.  4 4 If  you  think  I ought  to  be,  you 
have  only  to  say  a word  and  you  shall  never  be  troubled 
with  me  again.” 


140 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


“ You  are  in  a great  hurry  forme  to  say  that  word,  and, 
by  Jove,  for  once  I feel  inclined  to  please  you!  An 
actress!  No  wonder  I find  you  ready  to  listen  to  soft 
words  from  any  man!  No  wonder  the  words  from  me 
which  used  to  set  you  blushing  for  pleasure  can’t  touch 
you  now ! You  are  just  a thing  for  everybody  to  look  at — 
not  a wife  for  me ! Go  away ; I would  rather  fall  than 
that  you  should  touch  me!” 

He  was  tottering,  and  his  forehead  was  wet  with  weak- 
ness and  passion.  He  would  not  take  George’s  help,  but 
staggered  along  by  the  wall  to  the  door.  There  the  house- 
keeper met  him,  and  Annie,  standing  still  in  the  middle  of 
the  picture-gallery,  heard  him  say: 

“ Brandy,  for  Heaven’s  sake,  brandy,  whether  it  is 
poison  to  me  or  not!” 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

Annie  turned  with  a piteous  expression  of  face  to  George 
when  her  angry  husband  had  left  them. 

“What  can  one  do  with  aman  like  that?”  she  said.  “ It 
is  impossible  to  reason  with  him,  impossible  to  understand 
him.  He  is  like  an  overgrown  child.” 

“I  don’t- know  about  that,”  answered  George,  quietly. 
“ I think  I can  understand  this  last  outbreak  pretty 
well.” 

“ What  do  you  mean?” 

“ Why,  when  you  left  him,  you  were  a little  timid  lily, 
whose  charm  was  quite  lost  upon  a great  senseless  brute 
like  that,”  said  George,  with  sentiment;  “now  you  have 
come  back  a ” 

“ A great  flaunting  dahlia,  whose  charm  must  be  appar- 
ent to  the  meanest  observation,  and  particularly  to  a person 
of  my  husband’s  tastes!”  finished  Annie,  looking  up  at 
him  very  gravely. 

His  sentiment  was  dispelled;  he  was  obliged  to  burst  out 
laughing. 

“ You  are  too  sharp  for  me.  You  know  very  well  I did 
not  mean  that.  You  are  a charming  woman  who  can  hold 
your  own  in  any  society;  you  have  caused  quite  a flutter 
among  us  poor  rustics;  and  Harry,  finding  himself  the 
possessor  of  something  everybody  else  admires,  with  dog- 
in-the-manger  instincts,  wishes  to  keep  all  to  himself  the 
treasure  whose  value  he  himself  would  nerver  have  dis- 
covered and  is  quite  unable  to  appreciate.” 

“ You  are  too  severe  upon  poor  Harry.  He  has  a lot  of 
good  qualities— you  know  I always  said  so;  only — unfort- 
unately they  are  qualities  which  don’t  harmonize  very 
well  with  mine.” 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 141 

4<Nor  with  anybody  else’s.  It  is  unfortunate,  certainly. 
He  would  be  charming  on  a desert  island.” 

“I  really  think  he  would  be  happier  there,”  said  Annie, 
with  a sigh,  “if  he  had  a horse  and  some  dogs.  He  is 
kind  to  animals,  and  they  seem  to  understand  him.  Good- 
night, George;  I must  go  to  him  now.  And  the  chances 
are  even  whether  he  will  try  to  hit  me  if  I go  near  him, 
or  insist  on  my  remaining  in  the  room  till  he  goes  to 
sleep.” 

She  shook  hands,  and  left  the  baronet  gazing  admiringly 
at  her  little  figure,  as  she  disappeared  swiftly  and  silently 
down  the  corridor  toward  the  room  her  husband  occupied. 
She  tapped  at  the  door;  but,  getting  no  answer  and  hear- 
ing no  sound,  she  opened  it  and  went  in.  Harry  was 
lying  on  the  bed  in  his  dressing-gown,  and  her  first  thought 
was  that  he  was  not  sober.  But  when  she  opened  the  door 
to  Mrs.  Stanley  a minute  after,  and  saw  that  that  dig- 
nified lady  held  a spirit -decanter  in  her  hand,  she  whis- 
pered : v 

4 4 Take  that  away,  please.  He  has  gone  to  sleep,  I 
think.” 

44  That  is  all  right.  I was  as  long  as  I could  be,  and  I 
brought  it  myself,  in  hopes  that  you  would  be  here  when 
I came  back.” 

The  housekeeper  went  away,  and  Annie,  fearful  he 
might  take  cold,  drew  a rug  softly  over  her  sleeping  hus- 
band. The  touch  roused  him;  be  turned  over  toward  her, 
and,  just  half  opening  his  eyes,  threw  his  right  arm  round 
her  neck  as  she  was  bending  down,  and  instantly  dozed 
off  again,  tired  out.  The  action  moved  Annie,  and  she 
knelt  down  beside  the  bed,  careful  not  to  disturb  him  by 
displacing  the  arm  that  held  her  in  an  unconscious  caress 
until  his  next  movement,  when  she  woke  him  up,  told  him 
to  go  to  bed,  and  left  him  before  he  had  time  to  remember 
his  anger  against  her  and  spoil  the  effect  of  that  half-un- 
conscious embrace. 

But  the  next  morning  he  was  in  a gentle  mood,  and  did 
not  allude  to  her  distasteful  career  when  she  brought  him 
his  breakfast.  This  good-humor  lasted  until  he  went 
down-stairs,  and,  after  looking  in  the  various  rooms, 
found  his  wife  in  the  library  with  William,  having  tracked 
them  by  their  voices  and  laughter. 

William,  with  great  tact,  instantly  assumed  an  appear- 
ance of  preternatural  solemnity  on  his  brother’s  entrance. 

“What  is  all  this  mystery?  What  are  you  doing  in 
here?”  asked  Harry,  crossly. 

44 1 am  helping  William  with  his  studies,”  said  Annie. 

Upon  this  h ej*  promising  pupil  grew  blue  with  suppressed 


m A VAGRANT  WIFE, 

laughter,  and  Harry’s  manner  got  more  and  morb  un- 
pleasant. 

“Oh,  I should  have  thought  you  had  had;enough  of  school- 
room work!  However,  since  you  haven’t,  and  I’m  not  too 
proud  to  take  a lesson,  you  shall  give  me  one,  too,”  and  he 
flung  himself  into  a chair  with  an  uncompromising  surli- 
ness which  was  not  encouraging  to  a teacher. 

Taking  no  further  notice  of  him,  Annie  proceeded  with 
her  dictation. 

“ Lorsque  Telemaque  et  ses  compagnons — virgule ” 

“ Oh,  confound  your  French!”  growled  Harry. 

And  William  burst  into  a roar  of  laughter;  while  Annie, 
seeing  that  her  amiable  husband  had  started  up  with  evil 
intentions  toward  her  pupil,  made  signs  to  the  latter  to 
leave  the  room,  which  he  did,  exploding  again  as  soon  as 
he  got  outside  the  door. 

“ Why  do  you  encourage  that  donkey  to  take  up  your 
time?”  asked  Harry,  when  he  had  exhausted  all  the  offen- 
sive epithets  at  his  command  on  his  youngest  brother. 

“ I am  very  fond  of  William,”  said  Annie,  quietly.  “It 
was  I who  first  encouraged  him  to  study;  and  now  it  is 
a great  pleasure  to  me  to  help  him.” 

“ A fine  lot  of  study  you  get  through,  I have  no  doubt!. 
You  were  studying  very  hard  when  I came  in,  weren’t 
you?” 

“Now  look  here,  Harry;  you  are  absurdly  unreason- 
able,” said  Annie,  wearily.  “Of  course  William  and  I 
don’t  sulk  through  a long  morning’s  work,  as  if  I were  a 
snuffy  old  professor  of  fifty  who  didn’t  care  a straw  about 
his  pupil  except  as  a mere  learning-machine.  I couldn’t 
care  for  William  more  if  he  were  really  my  brother.  You 
never  used  to  complain  when  he  and  I were  out  in  the 
fields  and  woods  together  all  day  long.  He  was  my  con- 
stant companion  when  I was  very  miserable  and  lonely; 
and  am  I to  snub  and  sit  upon  him,  now  that  he  has  taken 
to  reading  so  that  he  may  be  more  of  a companion  to  me 
than  ever?” 

“ What  do  you  want  with  his  companionship?  I can’t 
think  what  you  can  see  in  a great,  clumsy  gawk  like  that. 
He  isn’t  even  clever.” 

“ He  is  good-tempered,  and — he  is  fond  of  me.” 

“Much  you  care  about  anybody’s  being  fond  of  you! 
You  are  the  coldest  woman  I ever  saw,  and  all  your  pretty 
— I mean  all  your  affected  little  ways  are  just  acting.  Yes. 
that  is  what  they  are — just  acting!”  repeated  Harry,  as  if 
struck  by  a happy  idea. 

“ Very  well,  Harry.  Then  why  don’t  you  let  me  go  and 
act  on  the  stage,  where  I shall  get  applauded  instead  of 
worried  about  it?” 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


148 


<l  Because  I don’t  choose  to  let  you  go,”  said  he  doggedly. 

“ And  I don’t  choose  to  see  myself  slighted  and  treated  as 
if  I were  nobody  at  all,  just  for  that  great  ignorant,  ill- 
mannered  boy.  And  I won’t  allow  any  more  of  these 
humbugging  lessons — do  you  hear?” 

“I  hear  you  certainly.”  answered  Annie  softly, 

“That  means  that  you  won’t  obey  me,  I suppose?”  She 
did  not  reply. 

“ Very  well  then;  I sha’n’t  say  any  more,”  said  Harry, 
shaking  with  passion;  “but,  when  I find  him  again  grin- 
ning at  you  over  his  copy-book  and  swaggering  about  with  \ 
his  French,  I shall  just  pitch  his  books  and  his  tomfoolery 
into  the  fire  and  punch  his  head  for  him.” 

“That  will  be  very  wise,”  remarked  Annie  gravely. 

“ And,  if  you  were  only  to  treat  in  the  same  way  every 
other  person  who  can  talk  to  me  on  subjects  that  interest 
me  and  who  does  not  grumble  at  me  from  morning  till 
night,  I am  sure  I should  become  a much  better  wife  and 
a much  more  entertaining  companion  for  yourself.”  She 
had  risen  and  walked  toward  the  door. 

“ Where  are  you  going?”  asked  Harry  sharply. 

“ To  meet  Lilian  at  the  station.  You  know  she  is  com- 
ing to-day,  and  Stephen  with  her.” 

He  let  her  go  without  further  comment ; but,  when  she 
came  down  stairs  again,  ready  to  start,  she  found  him  in 
the  hall  playing  with  a hunting-crop. 

“Isay,  Annie,  are  you  going  to  the  library  at  Beck- 
ham?” 

“Yes.” 

“Will  you  get  some  books  for  me?” 

“ For  you!”  said  his  wife,  in  amazement. 

“Yes,  for  me” — very  irritably. 

“ Oh,  yes,  certainly  ! What  books  shall  I get?” 

“ Oh,  anything  you  like!” — and,  without  looking  at  her, 
he  marched  off  into  the  billiard-room. 

“ I hope  there  is  nothing  the  matter  with  his  head,” 
thought  Annie,  anxiously,  as  she  got  into  the  carriage. 

Annie  went  to  the  station  to  meet  her  sister-in-law,  with- 
out any  of  the  nervousness  she  had  once  felt  before  an  in- 
terview with  that  imperious  beauty.  If  Lilian  should  re- 
sent the  change  in  her  position  at  the  Grange,  Annie  was 
quite  ready  to  go,  and  was  rather  hoping  that  Mrs.  Falcon- 
er’s arrival  might  pave  the  way  for  her  own  departure. 
She  bought  the  Era  on  her  entrance  into  the  station,  and, 
having  some  minutes  to  wait  before  the  train  from  Lon- 
don was  due,  went  into  the  waiting-room,  cut  the  leaves 
of  the  paper  roughly  with  a pencil  she  happened  to  have 
in  her  pocket,  and  glanced  through  the  pages  eagerly. 
She  found  what  she  wanted— a notice  of  a morning  per^ 


144 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


formance  in  which  she  knew  that  Aubrey  Cooke  was  to 
play  a part  ; and,  with  flushed  cheeks  and  beating  heart, 
she  read  that  he  had  made  the  chief  success  in  the  piece, 
in  a character  so  well  played  that  the  critic  pronounced 
him  “ the  coming  comedian.”  Annie  knew  that  this  sen- 
tence was  one  she  had  heard  before  of  other  young  actors 
who  never  came  to  anything  in  particular.  But  her  pleas- 
ure in  reading  this  testimony  to  his  talent  was  none  the 
less  great,  and  with  trembling  fingers,  she  almost  involun- 
tarily drew  a shaky  line  with  her  pencil  down  that  part 
of  the  notice  which  referred  to  him. 

She  was  looking  brilliant  when  she  met  Lilian,  who  com- 
plimented her  on  her  appearance,  and  said  she  had  heard 
from  her  brothers  that  she  would  now  have  to  subside 
meekly  into  the  second  place,  since  Annie  had  grown  into 
such  a charming  woman. 

“But  you  might  have  let  me  know  you  were  on  the 
stage,”  said  Lilian,  with  good-humored  reproach.  “I  find 
now  that  I know  several  of  the  actors  who  were  with  you 
at  the  Begency . And  only  think ! I went  there  one  night 
when  you  were  playing  in  the  piece,  and  never  recognized 
you.” 

“ I recognized  you,  though.” 

‘Did  you?  Can  you  see  people  you  know  among  the 
audience  when  you  are  acting?” 

“Oh,  yes!  And  I saw  Colonel  Bichardson.” 

“ Most  people  can  see  him  when  you  are  about,”  broke 
in  Stephen,  who  had  come  from  town  with  his  cousin,  but 
had  sat  silent  in  the  carriage  until  now. 

This  was  a bolder  speech  than  he  would  have  ventured 
to  make  in  the  old  times  to  Lilian,  Annie  thought.  She 
noted  that  the  cripple  had  grown  much  older-looking;  his 
face,  which  had  once  been  handsome,  was  thin  and  wasted, 
and  he  looked  sullen  and  discontented. 

Lilian  took  no  notice  of  his  remark,  and  asked  Annie  if 
she  had  seen  many  of  the  people  of  the  neighborhood  since 
she  had  been  at  the  Grange. 

“Yes,  most  of  them  have  called,  to  my  surprise,  since 
William  let  out  to  old  Mrs.  Knowles  that  I had  been  on 
the  stage.  She  and  her  niece  made  a tentative  call,  and  I 
suppose  the  rumor  spread  that  I did  not  bite,  so  everybody 
came  and  praised  my  wifely  devotion,  which  I certainly 
did  not  deserve.” 

Lilian  laughed. 

“ Harry  ill  must  be  a great  trial,  though.” 

“ He  is  rather;  he  has  such  strange  freaks.” 

“Husbands  always  have,  dear.  Only  fancy— my  hue* 
band  wanted  to  prevent  my  coming  to  the  Grange!” 

“ Beally?  For  what  reason?” 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


145 


44  Oh,  he  disapproves  of  my  brothers,  or  some  such  non- 
sense!” said  Lilian  lightly. 

But  Stephen  raised  his  eyes  to  his  cousin’s  face  with  a 
penetrating  look  which  Annie  noted  and  remembered. 

Dinner  that  night  was  a banquet  of  rejoicing.  The  two 
ladies  were  both,  in  different  ways,  among  the  most 
charming  women  of  the  day.  Lilian  was  very  handsomely 
dressed  in  dark  red  velvet,  which  showed  off  her  fair, 
queenly  beauty  well;  Annie,  in  maize-colored  silk,  with 
soft  folds  of  Indian  muslin  about  the  throat,  looked  like  a 
little  fairy.  The  style  of  each  was  so  different  from  that 
of  the  other  that  their  attractions  did  not  clash,  and  An- 
nie’s quiet,  simple  manner  of  saying  amusing  things  was 
the  best  contrast  possible  to  Lilian’s  laughing  imperti- 
nences. 

Lilian  was  very  anxious  to  know  at  once  all  about  her 
sister-in-law’s  stage- experiences,  and  was  seized  with  a 
strong  desire  to  become  an  actress  herself. 

“ Don’t  you  find  people  off  the  stage  very  dull  after  the 
nice,  amusing  people  you  meet  in  the  theater?”  she  asked 
at  dinner. 

“Oh,  no!  Some  stage-people  are  dreadful  bores,  and 
many  are  coarse  and  many  commonplace.  They  are  not 
all  alike,  you  know,  any  more  than  people  off  the  stage.” 
“ But  all  the  actors  I have  ever  met  have  been  so  bright 
and  amusing.  I know  two  who  were  at  the  Begency, 
where  you  acted— Mr.  Gibson  and  Mr.  Cooke.” 

“Oh,  yes;  I heard  them  say  they  knew  you!” 

“Don’t  you  like  them?  Are  they  nice  in  the  theater? 
They  are  two  of  the  best-bred  men  I have  ever  known.” 
“They  are  very  nice  men,  indeed,  and  very  clever  act- 
ors; I like  them  both  immensely.” 

“And  Mr.  Gibson  is  so  handsome,  and  does  not  seem  to 
know  it.  But  he  must,  for  I should  think  all  the  women 
in  the  theater  must  be  in  love  with  him.  Were  you  not  a 
little  in  love  with  him?” 

“ In  love  with  a beggarly  cad  of  an  actor?”  shouted 
Harry,  scandalized. 

“ You  don’t  know  what  you  are  talking  about!”  said  his 
sister,  coolly.  “ OE  course  your  manners  are  not  those  of 
Mr.  Gibson ; they  are  those  of  his  valet.  Didn’t  you  think 
him  very  handsome,  Annie?” 

“Yes,  very.  And  he  has  such  a sweet  voice.” 

Her  husband’s  voice,  for  the  moment  not  at  all  sweet, 
uttered  a growling  protest. 

“ And  Mr.  Cooke?  He  is  not  handsome,  but  he  is 
charming.  Don’t  you  like  him?  Oh,  I know  you  must, 
for  I saw  that  you  had  marked  his  name  in  a critique  in 
your  paper!” 


146 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


Annie  blushed  as  she  answered  that  he  was  very  nice, 
too,  and  very  clever;  she  had  an  uneasy  feeling  that  her 
husband  was  glaring  at  her  across  the  table  and  noting  her 
change  of  color. 

During  the  few  minutes  which  remained  of  the  ladies’ 
stay  in  the  dining-room,  Harry  never  took  his  eyes  off  his 
wife’s  face;  and  she  was  conscious  of  this,  though  she  did 
not  once  look  at  him. 

In  the  drawing-room  Lilian  was  quite  affectionate. 

“You  were  always  a good  little  girl;  but  I had  no  idea 
you  would  bloom  into  such  a clever  woman,”  said  she, 
with  her  white  hands  on  the  shoulders  of  the  smaller 
woman. 

“ How — clever?”  asked  Annie,  laughing. 

“Why,  at  keeping  your  own  counsel!  But  you  may 
trust  me.  There  is  always  some  one  nicer  than  one’s  hus- 
band, and  when  one’s  husband  is  Harry!  I think  your 
discretion  does  you  great  credit.  As  soon  as  I heard  you 
were  on  the  stage,  I tried  to  find  out  who  it  was  that  had 
induced  you  to  go  on,  or  to  remain  on;  and  you  had  been 
so  very  discreet  that  nobody  could  link  your  name  with 
any  other.  And  it  was  not  until  I mentioned  those  two 
names  at  dinner  that  I found  you  out.  And  nobody  could 
have  seen  you  wince  but  me.  I am  very  clear-sighted  in 
these  matters.” 

“Indeed!”  said  Annie,  calmly.  “And  may  I know 
which  of  my  fellow- actors  I am  dying  for  love  of?” 

“ I did  not  say  that.  I know  your  conduct  is  circum- 
spection itself.  But  I know  which  of  these  two  gentlemen 
is— nicer  than  Harry.” 

“Oh,  you  might  put  them  both  together  and  bracket 
a good  many  more  with  them  under  that  heading!”  said 
Annie. 

“I  dare  say.  But  you  need  not  look  so  ostentatiously 
indifferent.  I should  think  it  must  be  impossible  to  know 
Mr.  Gibson  well  without  admiring  him.” 

“Well,  that  is  true,  certainly,”  assented  Annie,  not 
giving  the  least  sign  of  the  relief  she  felt  at  hearing  Lilian 
utter  the  wrong  name. 

She  did  not  in  the  least  mind  that  her  sister-in-law 
should  imagine  her  to  have  a preference  for  Mr.  Gibson ; 
but  she  would  not  for  worlds  have  it  suspected  that  she 
could  have  the  faintest  warmth  of  feeling  for — Mr.  Cooke. 

When  the  gentlemen  came  into  the  drawing-room. 
Harry  was  not  among  them,  and  William  said  he  had 
gone  up-stairs  to  bis  room.  A few  minutes  later  a serv- 
ant icame  in  to  Anniie,  asking  if  she  would  go  to  Mr. 
Harold,  who  had  sentt  word  to  say  that  he  was  ill  and 
granted  her  particularly.  She  went  at  once,  and  judged, 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 14? 

as  soon  as  she  entered  his  room,  that  his  ailment  con- 
cerned his  temper  more  than  his  health. 

“You  sent  for  me,  Harry?  What  is  the  matter?  Don’t 
you  feel  well  ?’ ' she  asked  kindly. 

In  answer,  he  suddenly  produced  the  Era  from  the 
side  of  his  chair,  and  brought  his  fist  down  with  a thump 
upon  the  unfortunate  pencil-mark  by  Aubrey  Cooke’s 
name. 

“ Who  is  this  man  Cooke?”  he  asked  savagely. 

Annie  glanced  carelessly  down  at  the  paper,  and  said : 

“ Mr.  Aubrey  Cooke?  Oh,  he  is  one  of  the  actors  whom 
I knew  at  the  Regency — one  of  the  very  actors  Lilian  was 
speaking  of  at  dinner!” 

“ Yes,  I know  that  very  well;  and  you  need  not  pretend 
to  be  so  mightily  indifferent,  because  I know  more  than 
that,”  he  said,  with  an  affectation  of  penetration  through 
which  Annie  easily  read  anxiety  and  curiosity. 

“Do  you?”  said  she,  smiling.  “Then,  if  you  know  so 
much  you  must  know  that  this  curious  jealousy  you  have 
been  cultivating  lately  was  never  more  out  of  place  than 
in  the  case  of  the  men  I have  acted  with.  And,  if  you 
don’t  know  as  much  as  you  pretend,  ask  Lilian.” 

Harry  looked  at  her  searchingly  for  a few  minutes,  and 
then  dropped  the  paper,  disarmed. 

She  was  looking  so  pretty  in  the  light  evening  dress, 
with  her  graceful  head  crowned  with  the  coils  and  curls  of 
her  shining  brown  hair,  that  he  would  have  liked  to  drop 
his  offended  dignity  and  draw  her  into  his  arms  and  kiss 
her.  But  the  unconscious  Annie  had  another  blow  to  in- 
flict. She  held  in  her  arms  a pile  of  books,  and,  when  his 
face  relaxed  a little  after  her  reassuring  answer,  she  took 
one  up  in  her  hand. 

“ I have  brought  you  some  books  from  Beckham,  as  you 
asked  me  to  dov”  she  said.  “And  you  don’t  know  what 
trouble  I had  in  finding  anything  I thought  you  would 
like.  I turned  over  half  the  books  on  the  shelves,  I think. 
Here  is  ‘Sponge’s  Sporting  Tour,’  and  ‘ How  I Became  an 
M.  F.  H.,’  and  a book  about  horses,  and ” 

She  handed  him  a volume  with  her  eyes  still  bent  upon 
the  others  as  she  read  their  titles.  But  she  looked  up 
startled,  as  he  snatched  it  from  her  and  flung  it  with  all 
his  force  against  the  opposite  wall. 

“Harry!”  she  exclaimed,  amazed  at  the  fury  in  his 
face.  “ What  have  I done  now?  It  is  impossible  to  please 
you !” 

“Yes,  because  you  don’t  care — you  don’t  try.  I am 
just  an  ignorant  boor,  to  be  fed  and  clothed,  and  smoothed 
into  good  temper  when  I am  growing  dangerous,  and  to 
be  slighted  and  told  lies  to  when  I protest  against  such 


a Vagrant  wife. 


148 

treatment.  You  see  I know  all  about  it,  though  I am  such 
a clod !” 

She  had  walked  to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  picked  up 
the  book  without  any  show  of  annoyance,  and  was  trying 
to  restore  an  unruffled  appearance  to  the  crumpled  leaves. 
This  action  exasperated  him  still  more. 

“There  now — it  doesn’t  matter  what  I do,  because  it’s 
only  Harry!  Very  well  then!  There— and  there— and 
there — and  there!” 

At  each  repetition  of  the  word  he  flung  another  of  the 
volumes  she  had  incautiously  placed  within  his  reach,  not 
at  his  wife,  but  at  the  wall  by  which  she  was  standing. 

“Really,  Harry,  you  ought  to  be  in  a lunatic  asylum!” 
said  Annie,  out  of  patience  at  last. 

“ So  I shall  be  very  soon,  if  you  go  on  treating  me  like  a 
child,  when  I love  you  like  a man!”  burst  out  Harry,  pas- 
sionately. 

His  wife  looked  up  at  him,  from  where  she  was  standing 
at  the  other  side  of  the  room,  in  astonishment. 

“ Yes,  yes — stare  at  me  as  much  as  you  like;  I do  love 
you,  and  I’m  not  the  fool  you  think  me,  except  in  caring 
for  you!  Do  you  think  I don’t  know  that  you  look  down 
upon  me,  and  that  everybody  thinks  you  thrown  away 
upon  me?  Why,  I knew  that  in  the  old  days  when  I first 
married  you;  but  then  you  just  avoided  me,  and  I didn’t 
care.  But  now  you  come  back,  pretty  and  bright  and 
charming,  not  cold  and  shy  as  you  used  to  do,  you  flutter 
about  me  and  nurse  me  and  coax  me  into  good  humor,  and 
make  me  laugh  and  get  me  to  do  everything  you  wish;  and 
then,  when  I want  to  show  you  I love  you  for  it,  you  shut 
me  off  with  a little  laugh,  just  to  show  me  that  I am  only 
Harry,  and  whatever  I say  and  whatever  I do  doesn’t 
matter.  I say  it  is  cruel,  wicked,  and,  however  good  and 
clever  you  may  be,  you  are  treating  me  badly!”  he  ended, 
his  voice  breaking  down. 

“ Harry!”  was  all  his  astonished  wife  could  utter. 

“I  know  I’m  not  a companion  for  you,”  he  went  on, 
“ but  you  don’t  want  me  to  be,  you  won’t  understand  that 
I want  to  be.  I asked  you  to  get  me  some  books : but  I 
wanted  books  that  you  liked,  so  that  I might  read  them 
and  talk  to  you  about  them,  like  William  and  George. 
And  then  you  bring  me  a lot  of  sporting  trash,  as  if  I wasn’t 
fit  for  anything  but  the  stable!” 

“Harry!”  whispered  his  wife  again,  making  a step 
toward  him. 

He  looked  up  at  her  eagerly,  waiting  for  her  to  come  to 
him.  But  she  stopped. 

“ Well,  are  you  afraid  of  me?”  said  he. 

His  tone  was  not  inviting;  but  Annie  understood  him 


a vagrant  wife.  no 

this  time,  knelt  down  by  his  chair,  and  let  him  put  his  arm 
round  her. 

“ Annie,  will  you  try  to  love  me?”  he  asked,  huskily. 

“ Yes,  Harry,  I will  try.” 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Annie  left  her  husband’s  room  that  night,  after  his  most 
unexpected  declaration  of  love  and  her  own  promise  to  try 
to  return  it,  in  a state  of  bewilderment  in  which  thought 
was  for  a long  time  impossible.  That  his  affection  for  her 
was  anything  more  than  a passing  caprice,  the  result 
partly  of  jealousy  of  his  brothers,  and  partly  of  pique  at 
her  own  indifference,  she  did  not  for  a moment  believe. 
If  her  heart  had  been  quite  free,  she  might  have  been  less 
skeptical,  or  more  clearly  touched  by  this  acknowledgment 
of  the  strength  of  the  influence  she  had  gained  over  her 
rough  and  hitherto  careless  young  husband.  But  she  knew 
how  deep  lay  the  difference  between  his  nature  and  her 
own,  and  since  the  first  weeks  of  her  marriage  she  had 
given  up  all  hope  of  their  ever  harmonizing  with  each  other 
except  in  the  most  superficial  manner.  Through  his  pas- 
sionate words  she  had  seemed,  in  spite  of  herself,  to  hear 
the  ring  of  another  voice,  and  she  felt,  with  a thrill  of 
shame,  that  no  words  of  the  man  she  had  sworn  to  love 
could  wake  in  her  an  emotion  so  strong  as  that  she  had  felt 
at  the  few  faltering  words  in  which  Aubrey  Cooke  had  con- 
fessed that  he  loved  her. 

And  Aubrey  Cooke  was  out  in  the  world  working  hard, 
as  she  felt,  to  win  position  and  money,  to  make  himself  a 
name,  to  rise  to  the  heights  of  the  ambition  she  had  en- 
couraged ; and  perhaps  even  yet,  in  spite  of  her  discourag- 
ing words  to  him,  he  was  nursing  the  vain  belief  that  she 
would  some  day  be  his,  and  longing  for  the  time  when 
they  should  wander  out  together  again,  and  have  more 
long  talks,  in  which  the  words  of  each  seemed  but  to  ex- 

Eress  the  unuttered  thought  of  the  other;  while  Harry, 
er  husband,  would  remain  an  ignorant  idler  to  the  end 
of  his  life,  ill-tempered,  arrogant,  unsympathetic  to  her, 
as  if  he  had  been  an  inhabitant  of  another  world.  And 
this  man  she  had  promised  to  try  to  love,  with  the  honest, 
solemn  intention  of  keeping  her  word  to  the  best  of  her 
power!  But  she  confessed  to  herself,  with  a shudder  at 
the  thought  of  the  self-sacrifice  she  would  have  to  make 
if  his  caprice  were  to  last  and  she  were  to  have  to  put  off 
indefinitely  her  return  to  the  stage,  that  she  had  an  up- 
hill task  before  her. 

The  next  morning  she  met  her  husband  in  the  expecta- 
tion of  finding  him  as  ungracious  as  usual.  But  Harry 


TA~  VAGRANT  WIFE 1< 


156  T 

had  apparently  been  thinking  out  the  position,  fcorfod 
to  the  conclusion  that  the  effort  must  not  be  all  on  his 
wife’s  side.  At  any  rate,  he  was  gentle  and  considerate, 
and  asked  her  if  she  would  drive  him  out,  in  a courteous 
tone  which  seemed  to  admit  the  possibility  of  a refusal. 

It  was  the  first  day  that  he  had  been  out  of  doors  since 
his  illness,  and  he  was  very  good-tempered  and  happy,  sit- 
ting wrapped  up  in  rugs  by  his  wife’s  side  in  Lady  Braith- 
waite’s  pony-carriage;  and,  after  that  trial  of  it,  the  daily 
drive  became  an  institution.  Annie  found  that  the  expla- 
nation they  had  at  the  time  of  that  little  episode  of  the 
sporting-books  had  had  the  satisfactory  result  of  making 
Harry  more  docile  than  ever;  and  when,  in  the  country 
lanes  through  which  they  drove  for  miles  each  day  over 
the  frost-bound  earth,  she  started  him  on  some  favorite 
topic  of  his,  such  as  the  training  of  race-horses  or  the  ad- 
vantages of  a straight  saddle,  she  found  that  she  could 
continue  her  own  train  of  thought  almost  undisturbed,  by 
the  help  of  a nod  of  approval  every  now  and  then ; and 
she  found  him  quite  an  endurable  companion. 

But  unfortunately  Harry  was  not  so  stupid  as  he  was 
ignorant,  and  one  day,  when  Annie  had  given  a pleasant 
smile  of  approbation  of  what  he  was  saying  without  hav- 
ing listened  to  it,  he  suddenly  stopped  short  in  the  middle 
of  a sentence,  and,  looking  round  at  him  in  surprise,  his. 
wife  found  that  he  was  sulking. 

“ Go  on,  Harry;  that  is  very  interesting,”  said  she  in- 
nocently. 

“No,  it  isn’t;  you  don’t  know  what  I was  talking: 
about,”  he  returned  sullenly. 

“Yes,  I do,  Harry.  You  were  talking  about— horses,”' 
said  she,  with  what  she  thought  a safe  guess. 

But  her  husband  looked  blacker  than  ever. 

“I  wasn’t  talking  about  horses,  as  it  happens.  It  shows 
how  much  you  care  what  I say.  I’m  much  obliged  to  you 
for  letting  me  see  that  I bore  you.  Stop!  I’ll  get  out;” 
and  he  tossed  off  his  rugs. 

“No,  no,  don’t,  dear  Harry!  Let  me  drive  you  home. 
It  is  only  a little  way ; but  it  is  too  far  for  you  to  walk 
yet.  I’m  very,  very  sorry  I was  so  inattentive;  but  the 
fact  is  I— I have  something  on  my  mind  that  is  troubling 
me;  and  so ” 

“Have  you,  Annie?”  he  asked  anxiously.  “What  is 
it?”  Then,  noticing  the  expression  of  his  wife’s  face,  his 
manner  changed,  and  he  cried  roughly,  “It  is  a lie!  It 
is  an  infernal  excuse!  Stop,  I tell  you,  or  I’ll  jump  out 
without  your  stopping!  Now  I’ll  be  hanged  if  I let  you 
drive  me  out  any  more!  You  are  just  a little  hypocrite, 
pretending  to  listen  and  be  so  sweet,  when  all  the  tim* 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


151 


you  don’t  care  what  I say  if  I talk  myself  hoarse.  Go  and 
talk  your  learned  jargon  with  George,  and  William,  and — 
the  deuce,  if  you  like!  I’m  going  to  Joe  Green’s,  the 
blacksmith.” 

She  had  stopped,  seeing  it  was  of  no  use  to  try  to 
argue  with  him  in  this  mood,  and  that  to  disobey  him 
would  only  be  to  see  him  break  his  neck  before  her  eyes. 
And  she  drove  home  full  of  remorse,  after  watching  him 
vault  over  a gate  to  take  a short  cut  to  the  village,  and 
making  one  more  effort  to  stop  him  by  a piteous  cry  of 
“ Harry !”  of  which  he  took  no  notice. 

To  the  blacksmith’s — where  Susan  Green  lived ! This, 
then,  was  the  end  of  his  revived  affection  for  herself,  that 
the  very  first  walk  he  took  led  him  straight  back  to  the 
vulgar  charms  of  the  blacksmith’s  daughter. 

It  was  a bitter,  unpleasant  thought,  even  for  a wife  not 
sufficiently  fond  of  her  husband  to  be  jealous.  It  was  a 
humiliation  which  brought  up  in  her  mind  the  image  of 
the  one  man  who  thought  her  charms  superior  to  those  of 
any  other  woman.  She  did  not  feel  jealous,  but  insulted  by 
the  rude  speech  of  her  husband,  who,  after  she  had  used 
every  care,  every  charm  at  her  command  to  fulfill  her 
duty  to  him  in  sickness  and  in  convalescence,  rewarded 
her  with  a coarse  taunt  and  an  openly  expressed  intention 
of  leaving  her  for  the  society  of  a girl  of  low  birth  and 
not  unspotted  name. 

She  drove  home,  and,  as  soon  as  she  had  taken  off  her 
hat  and  mantle,  went  into  the  library,  where,  in  spite  of 
Harry’s  rough  prohibition,  she  still  continued  to  give 
William  lessons  in  French.  Dusk  was  coming  on;  but  it 
was  light  enough  for  her  to  see  the  figure  bending  over  a 
book  in  a low  chair  near  the  window.  She  crossed  the 
room  and  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

“William,  how  wrong  of  you  to  try  your  eyes  like 
that.” 

He  looked  up.  It  was  not  William,  but  Harry. 

“ You,  Harry?”  murmured  his  wife,  in  astonishment. 

“Yes,  me — Harry.  I may  try  my  eyes  as  much  as  I 
like,  mayn’t  I?” 

She  took  the  book  gently  from  his  hand.  It  was  “ Sartor 
Eesartus.  ’ ’ 

“ You  have  not  been  reading  this?”  she  gasped. 

“Yes,  I have.  I saw  it  lying  on  the  table  with  your 
book-marker  in  it,  so  I took  it  up  to  see  what  it  was  like ; 
and  I’ve  read  six  pages,  but  I’ll  be  hanged  if  I can  make 
head  or  tail  of  it !” 

“ Nor  can  I,”  said  Annie. 

“Well,  what  do  you  read  it  for  then?” 

She  hesitated. 


152 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


“It  was  written  by  a great  man,  a ‘mighty  thinker,’ 
and  I like  to  try  to  find  out  what  he  means.  ’ ’ 

“Well,  I think  it  is  a very  dull  amusement.  Thomas 
Carlyle” — looking  at  the  title  page.  “ Mighty  thinker, 
you  say.  I’ve  heard  of  a mighty  hunter ” 

“Oh,  you  are  thinking  of  Nimrod!  It’s  not  the  same 
person,”  said  Annie. 

“ You  are  laughing  at  me ! Very  well !” 

“ Yes,  I am,”  said  Annie,  smiling,  and  putting  her  arms 
affectionately  round  his  neck.  “But  I think,  if  I didn’t 
laugh,  I should  cry — I feel  very  much  touched  by  finding 
you— finding  you  here  trying  to  read  my  dull  books  when 
I was  feeling  very  angry  with  you  for  running  away  from 
me  as  you  did.” 

Harry  rubbed  his  curly  head  against  her  responsively 
without  saying  anything  for  a minute.  Then  he  looked 
up  searchingly  into" her  face. 

“ Annie,  I want  to  ask  you  something.  Just  now  Ste — 
some  one  told  me  they  had  seen  Colonel  Richardson  in 
Beckham  several  times  during  the  last  few  days,  and  had 
seen  you  talking  to  him.” 

“Well?” 

“ Well !” — sharply.  “ And  why  didn’t  you  say  anything 
about  it?” 

“ There  was  nothing  to  say.  I met  Colonel  Richardson, 
I spoke  to  him,  and  that  was  all.  What  is  there  strange 
in  that?” 

“Oh,  nothing,  of  course!”  He  paused  for  a moment 
and  looked  away  from  her.  Then  he  burst  out,  but  as  if 
to  himself:  “ It  was  Colonel  Richardson  who  came  dang- 
ling after  you  four  years  ago.  You  always  liked  him.” 

“ Harry,  don’t  be  so  absurd  as  to  be  jealous  of  Colonel 
Richardson!  Indeed  you  have  never  had  the  slightest 
cause  to  be  so.” 

“How  can  I be  sure  of  that?”  said  he,  turning  upon  her 
suddenly.  “ One  thing  I am  certain  of— that  is,  that,  dur- 
ing these  four  years  that  you  have  been  away  from  me, 
you  have  met  somebody  you  liked  better  than  me.  I don’t 
say  it  was  unnatural— I don’t  say  I’m  surprised;  but  I say 
that  I know  I’m  right,  and  I’ll  find  out  who  it  is,  as  sure 
as  I’m  your  husband ! You  say  I’ve  no  need  to  be  jealous 
of  any  actor— and  I don’t  myself  think  you  would  lower 
yourself  as  far  as  that ” 

“You  forget  that  I’m  an  actress,”  said  Annie,  com- 
posedly. 

“Were  an  actress;  but  you’re  not  one  now,”  answered 
he,  hastily.  “Well,  if  you  never  cared  for  any  actor,  why 
not  for  Colonel  Richardson?  He  is  handsome,  and  knows 
how  to  talk  to  you  about  the  things  you  like.” 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


153 


11  But  I have  told  you  already  that  I never  cared  for 
Colonel  Richardson;  and  your  persistent  jealousy  is  an 
insult  to  me  when  I tell  you  it  has  no  foundation.  He 
belongs  to  a type  of  man  which  has  no  attraction  forme.” 

“What  type’s  that?” 

“He  is  an  idler;  and  I have  worked  too  long  and  too 
hard  myself  not  to  despise  idleness  in  a man.” 

Harry  gave  a grunt  of  disapproval. 

“I  suppose  you  call  me  an  idler.” 

“Well,  I don’t  think  you  are  much  else,”  said  she, 
smiling. 

“It  seems  to  me,  Annie,  you  expect  a precious  deal  too 
much  of  a man,”  he  grumbled  presently,  in  an  injured 
tone.  “To  please  you  he  must  slave  like  a nigger,  whether 
he  has  any  need  to  work  or  not,  and  read  himself  blind 
over  the  dullest  trash  that  ever  was  printed,  and  never 
talk  about  anything  he  himself  likes,  but  chatter  by  the 
yard  about  things  that  haven’t  the  least  interest,  and  beam 
all  over  with  smiles  when  he  is  annoyed.” 

Annie  laughed. 

“ I don’t  think  I ever  expected  all  that  of  anybody,  and 
certainly  not  of  you,  Harry.” 

And  weary  of  this  useless  discussion,  she  left  the  room 
as  Stephen  entered  it.  The  friendship  between  her  and  the 
cripple  had  never  been  great,  and  he  was  now  rather 
jealous  of  her  position  in  the  household,  which  had  become 
stronger  than  that  of  his  adored  Lilian,  with  whom,  how- 
ever, he  had  begun  of  late  to  have  serious  quarrels. 
Harry  had  let  slip  the  fact  that  it  was  Stephen  who  had 
informed  him  of  Colonel  Richardson’s  presence  in  Beck- 
ham, which  had  so  needlessly  excited  his  jealousy.  Annie 
wondered  what  his  object  could  have  been. 

When  she  left  them  together,  Harry  jumped  up  from 
his  chair  and  faced  his  cousin. 

“ What  do  you  come  tormenting  me  for  with  your  hum- 
bugging stories  about  Annie  and  Richardson?  She  doesn’t 
care  a straw  for  the  fellow!” 

“Doesn’t  she?  Oh,  that’s  all  right!”  said  Stephen, 
meaningly. 

“ No;  she  only  spoke  to  him  out  of  civility,”  said  Harry, 
raising  his  voice,  but  looking  anxiously  at  the  other. 
“Here — what  do  you  mean  with  your  confounded  shrugs 
and  squirms?  Look  me  straight  in  the  face,  and  say  out 
what  you  mean?” 

The  cripple  was  trembling  and  his  face  paling,  but  not 
with  fear  of  his  companion.  He  hesitated  for  one  mo- 
ment, then  said,  in  a hurried  low  voice,  as  if  the  words 
were  wrenched  from  him  against  his  will; 

“Very  well;  don’t  mind  what  I say.  Of  course  I am 


154  1 


'A  VAGRANT  WiFR; 


warning  you  only  for  fun,  for  my  own  aindseifleni*  First 
go  and  tell  her  what  nonsense  I’ve  been  talking,  and  then 
— then  let  her  meet  Colonel  Richardson  at  the  lower  gate 
at  eleven  to-night,  and,  take  my  word  for  it,  you  won’t 
be  troubled  with  your  wife  any  more.” 

“ Liar!”  hissed  out  Harry. 

“ Oh,  it  is  only  my  fun,  of  course,”  sneered  the  cripple. 

Harry  stood  for  a moment  leaning  heavily  on  the  table. 
His  first  instinct  was  to  seize  his  cousin  by  the  collar  and 
confront  him  with  Annie ; but  the  next  moment  a terrible 
fear  that  this  was  the  truth  that  he  was  hearing  seized 
him,  and  a sudden  desperate  resolve  stopped  his  hand  and 
restored  him  to  an  appearance  of  calmness. 

The  hideous  story  seemed  to  him  in  his  excited  state 
only  too  likely.  This  would  explain  her  anxiety  to  get 
away,  her  comparative  coldness  toward  himself,  and  would! 
justify  the  suspicions  he  had,  not  of  her  purity,  but  of  her 
faith. 

“I  hate  her,  I hate  her,”  he  said  to  himself,  as  he 
dashed  away  from  Stephen,  out  of  the  library,  and  flung 
himself  down  upon  a seat  in  the  empty  billiard  room,  with 
his  head  in  his  hands.  “ I thought  I did,  and  now  I know 
it.  The  little,  deceitful,  heartless  vixen ! I’ll  just  take 
a leaf  out  of  her  own  book,  and  see  if  I can’t  be  loving 
while  I mean  all  the  time  to  make  her  suffer.  You  de- 
spise me,  do  you,  my  lady?  I’m  a clod,  am  I?  We’ll  see 
to-night  if  we  can’t  turn  the  tables  for  once.  You  thought 
you  could  turn  me  round  your  little  finger,  I’ll  warrant, 
and  laughed  at  me,  and  thought  me  a boor  and  a silly  fool 
to  be  fond  of  you.  But  you  are  mistaken,  my  fine  lady ! 
I hate  you,  I loathe  you,  and  I’ll  prove  it  to  you  to-night!” 

But  one  thing  in  his  programme  it  was  beyond  Harry’s 
strength  to  carry  out.  He  could  not  act;  and,  when  he 
met  his  wife  just  before  dinner,  and  would  fain  have  con- 
cealed, under  soft  words  and  caressing  manners,  the  pas- 
sionate indignation  which  was  raging  in  him,  he  was 
obliged  to  turn  away  from  her  brusquely  after  the  very 
first  words.  She  noticed  his  agitation ; but  it  was  as  im- 
possible as  it  was  unnecessary  to  fathom  all  her  husband’s 
caprices,  and  her  own  manner  then  and  at  dinner  was  ex- 
actly the  same  as  usual.  Stephen  watched  him  as  he 
glared  at  his  wife ; and,  when  dinner  was  over,  he  fastened 
himself  on  to  Annie  to  prevent  a conversation  between 
her  husband  and  her.  This  was  not  difficult;  for  Harry,, 
for  the  first  time  during  his  wife’s  stay  at  the  Grange,  had! 
disregarded  all  her  entreating  looks,  and  excited  himself 
so  much  with  wine  that  she  kept  carefully  out  of  his  way 
when  the  gentlemen  came  into  the  drawing-room. 

Except  for  that  incident  and  Harry’s  consequent  sullen- 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


155 


ness,  the  evening  passed  off  as  usual,  until,  at  half-past  ten, 
Annie  and  Lilian  retired  for  the  night.  Then  Harry,  in- 
stead of  joining  his  brothers  in  the  billiard-room,  sprung 
up  from  the  corner  where  he  had  been  sulking  and  watch- 
ing for  the  last  hour,  snatched  up  a hat  in  the  hall,  and, 
without  waiting  to  put  on  his  overcoat,  slipped  out,  with- 
out being  seen  by  any  one,  into  the  garden.  It  was  a snowy 
February  night,  and  he  shivered  as,  hot  with  wine  and 
mad  excitement,  he  first  stepped  into  the  keen  air;  but  he 
strode  down  over  the  lawn  toward  the  bottom  of  the  gar- 
den, reckless  as  to  the  effects  of  the  cold  and  wet  on  his 
not  yet  robust  frame.  He  reached  the  lower  gate;  but,  to 
his  intense  relief,  there  was  no  one  there,  no  sound  to  be 
heard.  He  waited  a few  minutes,  and  a deep  sense  of  joy, 
followed  by  the  determination  to  transfer  his  revenge  on 
to  Stephen,  who  had  played  this  trick  upon  him,  had 
risen  m his  breast,  when  he  heard  the  faint  sound  of 
wheels  and  hoofs  over  the  soft  snow,  and  saw  through  the 
falling  flakes  a close  carriage  coming  slowly  up  from  the 
direction  of  Beckham.  It  stopped  at  the  gate.  Harry 
held  his  breath ; the  carriage  door  opened,  and  a man  in  a 
thick  great- coat  stepped  down  into  the  snow.  It  was  Colo- 
nel Richardson. 

Harry,  who,  on  the  approach  of  the  carriage,  had  crept 
in  among  the  leafless  snow-covered  trees  and  the  tall  ever- 
greens of  the  shrubbery,  uttered  no  sound ; but  his  right 
ihand  went  swiftly  to  his  coat-pocket  and  drew  out  a re- 
volver, which  he  thrust  into  the  breast  of  his  coat  without 
again  relaxing  his  hold  of  it. 

Colonel  Richardson  walked  up  and  down  in  the  show  in 
front  of  the  gate,  stopping  after  every  few  steps  to  listen, 
and  to  shake  the  thick  flakes  off  his  coat  impatiently.  He 
never  came  very  near  to  the  motionless  figure  among  the 
trees,  for  there  were  a low  wall  and  a thick  growth  of 
laurel  and  rhododendron  bushes  between  them.  And  the 
spot  Harry  had  chosen  for  his  station  was  on  the  lower 
side  of  the  gate,  while  any  one  coming  from  the  house 
•would  come  down  to  the  upper  side,  so  that  Colonel  Rich- 
ardson, peering  anxiously  in  impatient  expectation  through 
the  branches,  never  once  glanced  in  his  direction. 

When,  in  a low  voice,  he  gave  the  coachman  some  di- 
rection, and  the  carriage  went  on  a little  way,  and  then 
turned  slowly  round,  Harry  recognized  it  as  a hired  car^ 
riage  from  a livery  stable  in  Beckham.  His  hand  still 
round  his  revolver,  he  was  on  the  alert  for  the  next  move- 
ment; but  the  carriage,  having  turned  so  that  tfye  horses’ 
heads  were  toward  Beckham,  stopped  again  before  the 
gate. 

Time  went  slpwly  by  for  both  men,  the  watcher  and  th§ 


166 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


watched;  while  the  latter  stamped  the  snow  from  his 
boots,  strode  up  and  down,  and  showed  ever-increasing 
impatience,  the  former  remained  as  still  as  ever  at  his 
post  among  the  laurels.  He  did  not  feel  the  keen  wind,  or 
the  falling  snow,  or  the  cold  of  the  damp,  white  mass  be- 
neath his  feet,  which  was  striking  into  his  frame  and  chill- 
ing him  to  the  bone. 

For  almost  the  first  time  in  his  life  thought  had  got 
hold  of  hftn,  and  was  torturing  him  with  sharp  pangs 
which  deadened  the  sense  of  bodily  discomfort  within 
him.  His  hatred  of  the  man  who  stood  there,  unconscious 
of  his  presence,  and  the  deadly  errand  which  brought 
him,  blazed  as  fiercely  as  ever ; but  his  anger  against  his 
wife  was  dying  away,  and  giving  place  to  pity  for  the 
beautiful  little  creature  who  had  so  rashly  given  her  hap- 
piness into  his  keeping  four  years  and  a half  ago,  to  be 
punished  for  her  rashness  by  his  brutal  neglect  and  in- 
difference. 

“ Yet  I meant  to  be  kind  to  her.  I did  not  want  to  be 
cruel.  Am  I such  a brute  that  I can’t  help  it?  I have 
tried  to  be  gentle  with  her  lately,  and  she  likes  me  no  bet- 
ter. She  comes  back  to  tantalize  me  into  loving  her  as  I 
never  thought  I could  love  any  woman,  and  then  runs 
away  with  this  blackguard,  who  would  just  throw  her 

over  when Good  heavens!  No!  Even  he  couldn’t 

desert  her!” 

His  lip  quivered,  and  there  came  a choking  feeling  in  his 
throat. 

“ Thank  Heaven  I’m  in  time  to  stop  her!  She’ll  have  to 
stay  with  me  now;  but  she  will  find  a way  of  making  it 
more  a punishment  for  me  than  for  her,  I expect.  What 
an  ass  I am  to  care  about  her— I mean,  to  have  cared 
about  her!  I’ll  just  show  her  the  difference  now.  She 
shall  see  if  it  wasn’t  better  to  have  a churlish  husband  for 
a slave  than  for  a master.  She  despised  me,  did  she,  and 
thought  me  a fool  for  letting  her  do  what  she  liked  with 
me?  Yes,  that  is  the  way  with  women.  Well,  now  it  is 
her  turn  to  do  what  I like;  and  I sha’n’t  be  so  soft  about 

it  either.  I’ll  just Confound  her,  I’ve  a good  mind 

to  let  her  go  on  with  him,  and  snap  my  fingers  at  her  and 
be  rid  of  her ! Ay,  and  I would,  too,  only  she  is  my  wife, 
worse  luck,  and  I must  do  for  my  honor  what  I wouldn’t 
do  for  her.  No,  that  I wouldn’t!  Oh,  good  Heaven,  will 
she  never  love  me?  I’m  not  good  enough  for  her;  but  I’m 
not  such  a cur  as  that  fellow !” 

As  the  minutes  dragged  on,  a hope  began  to  rise  within 
him  that  she  was  not  coming,  after  all,  while  he  could  see, 
to  his  joy,  that  the  anxiety  of  the  man  he  was  watching 
bad  grown  keener.  Still  they  heard  po  sound,  though 


A VAGRANT  WIFE.  157 

they  listened  intently,  the  one  in  hope,  the  other  in  dead' 
liest  fear. 

At  last  Harry  saw  Colonel  Richardson  turn  his  head 
quickly,  as  if  his  ear  had  caught  some  expected  sound; 
then  he  laid  his  hand  upon  the  latch  of  the  gate.  Still 
Harry  heard  nothing. 

But  a minute  later,  through  the  falling  snow,  he  saw 
above  him,  swiftly  approaching  down  the  soft,  white 
track  of  the  pathway,  a woman’s  figure;  and,  with  a 
silent  curse  and  a heart  heavy  within  him,  his  eyes 
turned  quickly  to  the  man  who  was  stealing  his  treasure. 
Colonel  Richardson  had  raised  the  latch  of  the  gate,  opened 
it,  and  stood  inside,  waiting.  Harry ’s  anger  blazed  up 
with  fresh  intensity. 

u I’ll  shoot  him  like  a dog !”  thought  he. 

And  he  stepped  out  from  the  shrubbery  on  to  the  path- 
way, drew  out  his  revolver,  and  covered  the  other  man 
with  it  as  steadily  as  he  had  ever  aimed  at  a partridge. 
Then  he  stood  still,  waiting  for  the  other  to  turn  and  see 
him.  But  Colonel  Richardson’s  attention  was  fixed  on 
the  rapidly  approaching  figure.  Harry  would  not  look  at 
her.  It  was  not  until  the  two  had  met  that  his  eyes,  in 
watching  the  man,  fell  upon  the  woman  also. 

“I  could  not  get  away  before;  the  boys  were  all  over 
the  house,”  she  was  whispering,  deprecatingly. 

His  hand  with  the  revolver  dropped  to  his  side  as  he 
sprung  forward  and  in  a few  strides  reached  them  and 
dragged  her  away. 

44  Lilian!” 

* * * * * * * 

At  twenty  minutes  to  twelve  that  night  Annie  was 
roused  from  sleep  by  knocking  at  her  door. 

“What  is  it?”  she  cried,  sleepily. 

But  the  answer  startled  her  into  wakefulness. 

“Annie,  Annie,  open  the  door,  for  Heaven’s  sake!” 

It  was  her  husband’s  voice,  but  hoarse,  feeble,  and 
broken. 

For  one  instant  she  paused.  But  there  came  another 
faltering  knock,  and  Harry’s  voice  again,  more  feebly 
still,  called: 

44  Annie,  Annie,  let  me  in;  I am  dying!” 

She  flew  to  the  door,  unlocked  and  opened  it;  and 
Harry,  his  coat  wet  with  half-melted  snow  and  covered 
with  blood,  staggered  forward  into  her  arms. 


158 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

“Let  me  stay  here!  Don’t  send  me  away!”  were 
Harry’s  first  words,  as  his  wife  led  him  to  a chair  and 
supported  his  head  against  her  breast. 

“Yes,  yes,  you  shall  stay.  Oh,  Harry,  what  have  you 
done?  You  are  drenched  to  the  skin  and  cold  as  ice! 
Where  are  you  hurt?  Is  it  only  here?” 

She  touched  his  forehead,  from  a cut  in  which  the  blood 
was  still  flowing. 

“ That  is  all— I think,”  said  he,  drowsily.  “ But  I’m— 
cold.” 

He  was  shivering  violently.  She  rang  the  bell  for  assist- 
ance ; but  it  was  too  late  to  avert  the  consequences  of  that 
night’s  work,  and  before  morning  the  fever  was  back  upon 
him.  It  was  impossible  to  learn  from  him  how  it  had  hap- 
pened. When  his  mind  wandered,  he  talked  disconnect- 
edly of  herself,  sometimes  tenderly,  sometimes  angrily 
and  jealously,  but  always  of  her.  Annie  sat  up  by  him 
all  night,  and  in  the  morning,  with  softened  tread  and 
pale,  downcast,  anxious  face,  Lilian  crept  in.  He  did  not 
know  her — he  did  not  know  any  one. 

“Go  and  get  some  rest  now,  Annie;  I will  watch  by 
him,”  she  whispered. 

“ Why,  Lilian,  you  look  as  if  you  had  sat  up  all  night, 
too!  What  is  the  matter  with  you?” 

Lilian  did  not  answer  for  a minute,  but  stood  watching 
the  restless  movements  of  her  sick  brother;  and,  when  she 
turned  again  to  Annie,  her  proud  gray  eyes  were  full  of 
tears.  * 

“ I may  as  well  tell  you  now,  for  you  are  sure  to  learn  it 
as  soon  as  poor  Harry  comes  back  to  his  senses— if  he  ever 
does.” 

She  paused,  and  the  other  listened  curiously  for  her  con- 
fession, for  a confession  she  felt  surest  was  that  she  had  to 
hear. 

She  was  right;  for  Lilian  went  on: 

“ Annie,  you  must  not  despise  the  poor  fellow  any  more. 
He  can  act  like  a man  if  he  can’t  speak  like  a professor.  If 
it  had  not  been  for  him,  I should  have  run  away  last  night 
with — Colonel  Richardson. 

*‘Oh,  Lilian!” 

“ Don’t  interrupt  me,”  went  on  the  other  hurriedly — 
“ I may  not  feel  inclined  for  confession  again.  I was  to 
meet  him— Colonel  Richardson — at  the  lower  gate.  Well, 
Harry  was  there.” 

“ But  how  was  that?” 


A vagrant  wife. 


159 


“ He  thought  it  was  you  who  were  going  off.” 

“I!” 

“ Yes.  yes,  he  did.  I know  whose  doing  that  was. 
Stephen  had  guessed  or  found  out  something,  and  not 
having  the  pluck  to  stop  me  himself,  and  not  wanting  a 
general  row,  he  got  Harry  to  suppose  it  was  you  who  were 
going  off  with ” 

“ But  Harry  would  never  have  believed  that  I ” 

“Why  not?”  said  Lilian,  in  a hard  tone.  “Have  you 
returned  his  affection  for  you  so  very  warmly  as  to  make 
it  impossible  for  him  to  think  that  you  cared  for  any  one 
but  him?  However,  it  is  not  for  me  to  reproach  you,  es- 
pecially on  the  score  of  want  of  wifely  devotion.  When 
he  found  it  was  I,  Harry  tried  to  drag  me  away;  but  I 
struggled  to  escape  from  him,  and  told  him  not  to  inter- 
fere with  me.  He  would  not  let  me  go,  and  I told  him 

You  will  be  shocked,  Annie,  but  I loved  the  man — I do 
now— and  I was  desperate.  I asked  Harry  how  he  could 
be  sure  he  was  not  too  late.  And  he  looked  me  straight 
in  the  face  very  steadily,  so  that  I felt  awfully  ashamed  of 
myself,  and  he  said,  ‘ I may  not  be  in  time  to  save  your 
character,  but  at  least  I will  save  your  reputation.’  And 
for  a moment  I stood  quite  still,  hesitating,  while  he  still 
held  my  arm.  He  had  a revolver  in  his  other  hand.  Be- 
fore I spoke  again,  Herbert— Colonel  Bichardson  sprung 
forward,  snatched  the  revolver  from  him,  and  struck  him 
in  the  face  with  it,  while  he  tried  to  pull  me  away.  But 
Harry  never  let  go,  and  that  decided  me.  I told  Herbert 
he  was  a coward  to  strike  a man  hardly  recovered  from 
illness,  and  that  I would  not  go  with  him.  Harry,  poor 
fellow,  could  not  have  kept  me  back  then;  I had  to  support 
him;  and  I led  him  back  here,  and  we  slipped  into  the 
house;  and  he  begged  me  to  bring  him  to  your  door,  and 
go  to  my  room,  and  no  one  should  know  anything  about  it, 
if  I would  promise  never  to  try  to  go  off  again.  1 didn’t 
promise — I hadn’t  time;  but  I never  will,  all  the  same. 
And,  Annie,  he  is  worth  loving.  Do  try  to  love  him  back! 
Oh,  you  would  if  you  knew  what  it  is  to  have  a husband 
who  is  a monument  of  all  the  virtues,  but  a monument  in 
stone!” 

And  the  wayward  woman,  who,  with  all  her  faults,  had 
generous  impulses,  laid  her  beautiful  head  on  the  bed  and 
sobbed. 

She  insisted  on  sharing  Annie’s  duties  as  nurse;  and, 
when  Harry,  after  being  long  in  danger  for  his  life,  at  last 
flickered  back  toward  convalescence,  the  first  person  he 
recognized  at  his  bedside  was  his  sister.  Her  passionate 
nature,  which  in  many  respects  resembled  his,  had  been 
deeply  moved  by  what  he  had  done  for  her,  and  still  more 


Or  VAGRANT  WIFE . 


160^ 

by  the  Unexpectedly  quiet  and  dignified  way  in  which  he 
had  done  it.  She  had  had  time  to  see  the  depth  of  the  so- 
cial abyss  into  which  her  proposed  flight  would  have 
plunged  her.  Her  long-standing  preference  for  Herbert 
Bichardson  she  had  not  subdued — she  felt  that  she  could 
not  subdue  it ; but  she  had  broken  off  even  her  correspond- 
ence with  him  at  Harry’s  request. 

Brother  and  sister  drew  near  to  each  other,  with  far 
deeper  mutual  affection  than  they  had  ever  felt  before, 
during  Harry’s  slow  return  to  health.  They  felt  that  they 
had  much  in  common,  both  ardent,  passionate  natures 
being  tied  to  colder  ones,  who  could  not  or  would  not  re- 
spond to  their  warmth  with  the  entire  abandonment  they 
craved.  There  the  likeness  in  their  positions  ended,  how- 
ever, for  Lilian  had  never  even  tried  to  sound  the  depths 
in  the  heart  of  her  middle-aged  husband,  while  every  look, 
every  touch  that  Harry  bestowed  on  his  wife  told  wist- 
fully of  the  longing  he  had  felt  to  be  master  of  her  love  as 
he  was  already  of  her  duty. 

The  gentleness  and  even  the  tenderness  of  her  care  of 
him  now  would  have  satisfied  any  one  less  exacting.  But 
fondness  had  made  the  young  fellow  clear-sighted ; and  he 
knew,  or  thought  he  knew,  that  her  heart  could  give  more 
than  that,  if  he  could  only  reach  it. 

Annie  herself,  who  seemed  in  this  matter  to  have  ex- 
changed wits  with  her  husband,  growing  duller  of  percep- 
tion as  he  grew  brighter,  fancied  that  his  fondness  for  his 
sister  had  grown  stronger  than  his  fondness  for  her,  and, 
after  a moment’s  pique,  she  felt  glad  of  it,  as  it  rendered 
an  avowal  she  had  to  make  all  the  easier. 

It  was  on  the  first  day  after  he  had  again  joined  the 
family  circle  that  she  found  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to 
him  alone,  and  of  telling  him,  under  a promise  of  secrecy, 
that  George  had  told  her  he  was  in  serious  difficulties,  and 
feared  that  he  would  not  be  able  to  keep  up  the  establish- 
ment at  the  Grange  much  longer.  Harry  listened  rather 
indifferently.  He  had  been  so  accustomed  to  hear  of  these 
difficulties,  not  only  since  his  brother  had  been  the  head 
of  the  family,  but  also  in  his  father’s  lifetime,  that,  as  it 
had  never  been  his  business  to  find  a way  out  of  them, 
they  had  altogether  ceased  to  excite  any  emotion  in  him, 
beyond  a faint  wonder  why  people  could  not  keep  these 
matters  to  themselves,  without  worrying  other  people 
about  them,  and  an  injured  feeling  that  the  head  of  the 
family  would  want  to  cut  down  his  allowance. 

“ George  is  always  in  difficulties,”  said  he. 

“ Ah,  but  it  is  serious  this  time!  We  really  must  think 
about  it.” 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


161 


“Well,  what  does  he  want  us  to  do?  Sell  matches  or 
enlist?  There  is  nothing  else  for  any  of  us.” 

“Yes,  there  is,  for  one,”  said  Annie,  cautiously,  watch- 
ing him.  “Look  here,  Harry:  I’ve  had  an  engagement 
offered  me  which  will  bring  me  in  so  much  money  that,  if 
I save,  we  might  live  upon  it  before  long.” 

“Who’s  we?” 

“You  and  I,  of  course.” 

“ And  do  you  think  I would  live  upon  your  money?” 

“I  think  you  would  be  very  unreasonable  not  to  do 
so,  if  I could  make  enough  to  keep  us.  I don’t  believe 
George  will  have  enough  for  us  all  much  longer,  and 
then ” 

“Then  it  is  I who  should  work,  not  you.” 

“I  think  it  is  the  one  who  has  been  used  to  it  who 
should  work,  and  that,  you  know,  is  I,”  she  said,  smil- 
ing. 

But  Harry  did  not  smile  back.  He  moved  restlessly  on 
his  sofa. 

“It  is  not  like  you  to  taunt  me,  Annie;  yet — yet  your 
words  sting  somehow,”  he  said  at  last. 

“ Oh,  Harry,  you  know  I did  not  mean  that!  Don’t  you 
see,  Harry,  *dear,  you  have  been  very  ill,  and  won’t  be 
strong  for  a long  time  after  this  second  attack ; while  I 
have  done  nothing  but  enjoy  myself  for  more  than  three 
months.” 

“Yes,  you  have.  You  have  been  nursing  me,”  said  he, 
tenderly. 

“Ah,  but  that  wasn’t  work;  that  was  pleasure,  except 
when — when  you  were  so  very  ill  this  last  time!”  rejoined 
she  gently.  4 4 And  now  I have  had  an  offer  to  play  a part 
in  London  which  would  just  suit  me,  and  might  make  me  a 
name,  and  to  have  six  guineas  a week  for  it.  And , if  I don’t 
take  it,  I may  never  have  such  a chance  again !’  ’ she  added, 
with  ill-concealed  eagerness. 

“I  see,”  said  Harry,  turning  upon  her  sharply.  “All 
this  time  that  I have  been  ill  you  have  been  plotting  to  get 
away  from  me  as  fast  as  possible.” 

“ I will  tell  you  what  I did.  I saw  that  a piece  was  to  be 
played  at  the  Parthenon — a translation  of  a French  piece 
— in  which  there  was  a part  I longed  to  play ; so  I wrote 
for  that  part,  mentioning  all  that  I have  done  on  the  stage: 
and  it  so  happened  that  they  were  in  a difficulty  for  an 
actress  for  that  very  part,  and  I got  the  offer  yesterday,  and 
must  send  an  answer  to-day.  I would  not  have  gone  for 
the  world  if  you  had  not  been  safely  through  your  illness, 
and  if  Lilian  had  not  been  with  you;  but,  Harry,  dear 
Harry,  if  you  do  really  feel  the  least  gratitude  for  my 
coming  back  to  take  care  of  you,  if  you  really  feel  for  me 


162 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


one  spark  of  the  fondness  I seem  to  see  in  your  looks,  let 
me  go!  You  are  not  ambitious  as  I am — you  have  not  had 
to  toil  and  fret  at  the  impossibility  of  getting  on,  as  I 
have;  but,  if  you  can  even  picture  to  yourself  how  terri- 
ble it  is  to  forego  success  when  at  last  it  seems  to  be  com- 
ing to  you,  you  will  let  me  go — you  will  let  me  go— you 
will  let  me  go!” 

Her  violent  excitement  had  brought  the  tears  to  her 
eyes.  As  she  knelt  beside  the  couch,  her  great,  passionate 
dark  eyes  fixed  upon  his  in  entreaty,  the  tears  welled  up 
in  his  eyes  too  as  he  snatched  her  into  his  arms. 

‘ ‘ I can  refuse  you  nothing.  Heaven  forgive  you — you 
will  break  my  heart?” 

A week  later  Annie’s  trunks  were  packed  for  London. 
On  the  last  day  before  her  departure  from  the  Grange  she 
took  a long  ramble  by  herself  through  some  of  her  favorite 
fields  and  lanes,  where  a mild  March  was  already  bringing 
forth  the  signs  of  spring.  She  had  promised  to  be  at  the 
old  church  at  four,  to  undertake  for  the  village  organist  a 
commission  of  getting  him  some  music  in  London.  She 
got  there  too  soon,  however;  so,  having  fortunately  pro- 
vided herself  with  the  key,  she  went  in  and  jap  the  wind- 
ing-stair to  the  top  of  the  old  square  tower.  She  had  a 
letter  to  read  which  she  had  had  unopened  in  her  pocket 
since  the  morning;  and,  when  she  got  at  last  on  to  the 
tower  and  had  gazed  for  a few  minutes  upon  the  wide  ex- 
panse of  country  commanded  by  the  hill  on  which  the 
church  was  built,  had  looked  a little  regretfully  at  the 
budding  trees  and  the  river  and  the  town  of  Beckham 
beyond,  an  ugly,  smoke-begrimed  place  indeed,  but  which 
bore  a deceptive  beauty  when  seen  from  a distance  on  a. 
sunny  afternoon  in  a haze  of  its  own  smoke,  she  drew  out 
her  letter,  which  was  directed  to  “Miss  Lang  ton,  ” and 
tore  open  the  envelope. 

She  knew  whom  it  was  from— a young  actress  who  had 
been  with  her  at  the  last  theater  Annie  had  played  at  in 
London,  who  had  then  played  silent  “guests,”  and  parts, 
too  small  even  for  Annie,  but  who  had  since  been  pro- 
moted to  the  latter’s  place.  Annie  had  written  to  this 
girl,  who  knew  nothing  of  her  marriage  or  of  her  private* 
life,  asking  her  to  send  her  the  address  of  some  cheap 
lodgings  which  she  had  once  recommended.  The  other 
had  not  only  complied,  but  had,  with  the  good  nature  so 
strikingly  characteristic  of  members  of  the  theatrical 
profession,  undertaken  to  see  the  landlady  and  make  terms* 
with  her  about  them.  This  matter  was  now  settled — the* 
rooms  taken ; so  this  letter  could  not  be  very  important. 
Bo  Annie  thought.  But  she  had  not  read  the  first  two 
f iges  before  the  color  in  her  face  deepened,  and  she  read 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


163 


on  to  the  end  with  an  intentness  which  only  tidings  of 
deepest  interest  could  have  called  forth.  The  passage 
which  had  fixed  her  attention  was  the  following: 

“ I met  Cooke,  who  was  here  at  the  Piccadilly  when  you 
were,  as  I was  walking  along  the  Strand  a day  or  two  ago. 
He  is  at  the  Regency  now,  and  the  papers  have  cracked 
him  up  so  in  the  part  he  is  playing  that  I wonder  he  con- 
descended to  talk  to  poor  little  me.  He  asked  how  we 
were  getting  on  at  the  Piccadilly,  and  I mentioned  that 
you  had  been  in  the  country,  but  were  coming  back  to 
London.  He  seemed  very  much  interested  in  you,  which 
amused  me,  remembering  as  I did  how  much  you  always 
disliked  him,  and  how  you  used  to  mimic  him  for  my 
amusement  in  the  dressing-room;  however,  I did  not  take 
him  down  by  telling  him  that.  Do  you  remember  how  I 
used  to  stick  up  for  him  when  you  said  he  was  fast? 
Well,  you  were  right,  for  they  say  the  way  he  is  carrying 
on  with  some  woman  who  has  been  acting  in  the  country 
with  him — West,  I think  her  name  is — is  something  dis- 
graceful, considering  that  he  is  engaged  or  half  engaged 
to  that  little  fair  girl  who  made  such  a hit  in  ‘ Ophelia  ’ 
last  year.  He  is  trying  to  get  this  West  into  the  Regency, 
I believe.” 

This  was  the  passage  which  had  arrested  Annie’s  atten- 
tion, which  she  read  through  again  and  again  with  dry 
eyes,  but  with  a bitter  feeling  of  disappointment  and 
shame.  Then  she  let  the  letter  drop  from  her  fingers,  and 
leaning  against  the  flag-staff  which  rose  from  the  top  of 
the  tower,  she  burst  into  heartfelt  sobbing.  She  had 
cheated  herself  into  believing  that  it  was  nothing  but  her 
ambition  which  impelled  her  in  her  eagerness  to  go  to 
London ; but  now  in  the  revulsion  of  feeling  which  sud- 
denly made  the  thought  of  returning  to  town  and  her  pro- 
fession unutterably  hateful  to  her,  she  saw  with  unmis- 
takable clearness  what  the  other  and  stronger  motive  had 
been  which  had  made  her  enforced  idleness  at  the  Grange 
so  hard  to  bear.  She  was  still  sobbing  when  she  heard 
sounds  behind  her,  and,  looking  round,  saw  her  husband’s 
head  as  he  came  slowly  to  the  top  of  the  stairs. 

“ What  is  the  matter,  Annie  dear?”  he  asked  anxiously. 

“ Harry,  what  made  you  come  up  all  those  steps?  It  is 
too  tiring  for  you,”  said  she,  bending  her  head  awkwardly 
to  hide  her  tears. 

“I  saw  you  from  the  avenue,  and  I saw  you  were  cry- 
ing,” he  answered,  as  he  mounted  the  last  step  and  rested 
his  hands  on  the  low  wall  for  support — he  was  not  strong 
enough  for  much  exertion  yet.  k‘  What  were  you  crying 
&bout,  Annie?  Not  because  you  are  goingaway,  I know/’ 


164 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


She  had  turned  away  to  wipe  the  tears  from  her  face, 
and,  as  she  turned  again  toward  him,  she  caught  sight  of 
her  letter  lying  on  the  ground  between  them.  He  saw 
it  at  the  same  moment,  and,  although  she  had  the  presence 
of  mind  to  pick  it  up  very  composedly,  he  at  once  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  in  it  lay  the  cause  of  her  distress. 

“Who  is  that  letter  from?” 

“ From  Miss  Taylor,  who  has  been  writing  to  me  about 
the  apartments  I am  going  to  have  in  town,”  she  said,  as 
she  put  it  into  the  pocket  of  her  mantle. 

“Let  me  see  it.” 

She  considered  a minute  while  pretending  to  feel  for  it, 
and  made  up  her  mind  that  it  would  be  best  to  give  it  to 
him,  as  there  was  nothing  in  it  which  was  likely  to  have 
any  meaning  for  him.  So  she  handed  him  the  letter  care- 
lessly, and  affected  to  be  gazing  admiringly  on  the  land- 
scape while  he  read  it.  But  Harry  got  on  to  the  right 
track  at  once. 

“This  Cooke— is  he  the  Aubrey  Cook  Lilian  talks 
about?” 

“Yes;  he  was  acting  at  the  Piccadilly  when  I was 
there.” 

‘ ‘ He  is  a man  in  the  habit  of  making  love  to  every 
woman  he  meets?” 

“ I don’t  know,  I am  sure.  I did  not  know  him  well, 
and  you  see,  as  Miss  Taylor  says,  I never  liked  him.” 

There  was  a pause,  but  he  was  not  satisfied. 

“He  must  be  a low,  vicious,  unprincipled  fellow !”  said 
he  suddenly,  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  steadily  on  his  wife. 

Annie  winced. 

“ I suppose  it  is  men  like  him  who  get  the  stage  such  a 
bad  name?”  he  went  on. 

Still  she  said  nothing,  but  leaned  over  the  low  battle- 
mented  wall  of  the  tower,  and  kept  her  eyes  steadily  fixed 
on  the  smoke-hung  town  in  the  distance. 

“ I hope  there  will  be  no  such  hounds  in  the  theater  you 
are  going  to,  Annie.  If  I thought  you  were  going  back  to 
a place  contaminated  by  the  presence  of  such  an  infamous 
scoundrel,  I would  not  let  you  go!” 

Annie  turned  her  head  very  quietly, 

“ What  has  he  done?”  said  she. 

“Done!  Haven’t  you  read  that  letter?  Haven’t  you 
heard  that  he  is  engaged  to  one  woman  while  he  is  hardly 
ever  away  from  another — one  of  the  vilest  of  her  sex? 
Perhaps  you  think  nothing  of  that?” 

“Well,  you  see,”  said  Annie  very  slowly,  looking  full 
into  his  angry  face,  “ I have  known  so  many  men  do 
worse  things  than  that.”  After  a minute’s  pause,  which 
her  husband  did  pot  attempt  to  fill,  she  went  on,  “I  have 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


105 


known  married  men  who  neglected,  insulted,  and  even 
struck  their  wives  within  the  very  first  months  of  mar- 
riage, who  gave  what  little  attention  they  had  to  spare  for 
anything  so  contemptible  as  a woman  to  the  lowest  of  the 
sex — men  who  crushed  the  beauty  out  of  their  young 
wives  by  brutal  carelessness  and  cruelty,  and  who  thought 
that  years  of  abandonment,  and  almost  every  wrong  a man 
can  do  a woman,  were  amply  atoned  for  by  a burst  of 
capricious  affection — affection  so  selfish  that  it  never  lost 
an  opportunity  of  wounding  the  object  of  it.” 

Harry  listened  to  this  outburst  without  an  interruption. 
His  head  sunk  and  his  chest  heaved  as  she  grew  more  ex- 
cited; but  when  she  had  finished,  he  raised  his  blue  eyes 
to  her  face,  and  asked  very  quietly : 

“How  have  I wounded  you?” 

Annie  was  not  quite  prepared  for  this.  She  answered, 
after  a little  hesitation : 

“By  insulting  the  profession  to  which  I belong — which 
has  given  me  all  the  happiness  I have  known  since  my 
marriage  with  you.” 

“No, ’’said  Harry,  sharply.  “By  speaking  candidly 
about  one  of  its  members — that  is  how  I have  hurt  you ; and 
it  was  just  to  turn  me  off  from  abusing  him  that  you  broke 
out  with  a catalogue  of  my  faults,  which  Heaven  knows  I 
don’t  deny.  I tell  you  again,  I may  be  a brute  and  a boor 
and  anything  else  you  like  to  make  me  out,  but  I’m  not  a 
fool;  and,  when  you  tell  me  you  dislike  this  Aubrey  Cooke, 
I tell  you  you  are  lying  to  me.” 

Annie  faced  him  again  very  quietly. 

“I  have  not  lied.  I told  you  I disliked  Aubrey  Cooke 
when  I was  at  the  Piccadilly.  I tell  you  now  that  I have 
loved  him  since  then,  and  that  now  I hate  him.  Are  you 
satisfied?” 

The  passion  in  her  words  was  convincing,  but  Harry  was 
not  content.  He  kept  his  gaze  fixed  on  the  frank  eyes  of 
his  wife  for  a few  moments,  then  looked  away  with  a 
heavy  sigh,  murmuring: 

“Hate  him!  That’s  no  good.  I’d  rather  you  did  not 
care  one  way  or  the  other.  ’ ’ 

Annie  was  touched.  She  had  fully  expected  a violent 
outbreak  on  her  husband’s  part  when  he  should  hear  her 
confession.  She  put  her  hand  softly  on  his  sleeve. 

“Harry,  you  need  not  be  frightened  indeed;  I shall 
never  care  for  him  again.” 

But  Harry,  without  even  trying  to  detain  her  hand, 
shook  his  head. 

“It  is  a very  bad  sign  to  hate  a person,”  said  he.  “I 
never  hated  any  person  but  you,  and  just  see  where  it  has 
landed  me.  Wliat  does  it  matter  if  you  don’t  care  fop 


166 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


him,  if  you  don’t  care  for  me  and  won’t  stay  with  mef 
And  as  for  the  way  you  pitched  in  to  me  just  now,  do  you 
think  I should  let  you  go  off  if  I didn’t  feel  I’d  done  you 
wrong  in  the  old  time  and  wanted  to  make  it  up  to  you? 
And  if  you  won’t  let  me  make  it  up  to  you  by  letting  me 
love  you,  I must  do  it  by  letting  you  go.  It  is  true  I have 
run  after — after  other  people,  but,  Annie,  I was  very  young 
— wasn’t  I? — and  I didn’t  know,  1 didn’t  understand  the 
charm  of  a woman  like  you  then.  How  could  I?  I wasn’t 
even  a man  myself,  and  you  were  afraid  of  me.  But, 
Annie,  I do  love  you  and  appreciate  you  now  more  than 
any  actor  who  ever  lived,  and  the  thought  of  your  going 
to  be  stared  at  by  every  one  who  cares  to  pay  to  look  at 
you  is  awful — awful!  And  my  darling,  you  are  my  wife, 
you  know,  and  if  you  won’t  love  me  ever,  I may  as  well 
go  and  cut  my  throat,  for  I — I — I ” 

He  broke  off,  fairly  sobbing.  Annie’s  heart  was  moved, 
and  she  hung  her  arms  round  him  with  one  touch  of  the 
deeper  tenderness  of  the  woman  he  had  longed  to  rouse. 

“Harry,  Harry,  I’ll  comb  back,  I’ll  come  back — at 
Christmas;  that  is  only  nine  months,  and  if  you  love  me 
still  then,  I will  never  go  away  from  you  again!” 

He  pressed  her  to  his  breast,  and  kissed  her  and  blessed 
her;  and  as  the  March  afternoon  began  to  wane  they  de- 
scended the  ruinous  stone  stairs  of  the  old  tower  slowly  to- 
gether, she  with  her  hands  to  his  shoulders  following  him 
step  by  step  silently,  but  not  unhappily.  There  was  hope 
in  her  husband’s  heart,  and  it  had  affected  her  a little. 
The  mellow  sounds  of  the  organ  were  pealing  through  the 
church  where  the  r^ganist  was  practicing  as,  at  the  bot- 
tom stair,  Harry  gave  his  wife  a last  passionate  kiss  before 
they  left  the  shadowy  building  for  the  outer  air. 

And  the  next  day  Annie  started  for  London. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

The  journey  back  to  London  was  a very  strange  one  to 
Annie;  she  never  saw  the  landscape  through  which  the 
train  passed,  she  did  not  even  remember  the  faces  of  her 
fellow-passengers  afterward.  Her  mind  was  filled  with 
fears  for  the  future— for  her  own,  for  her  husband’s,  for 
Lilian’s,  for  George’s,  for  that  of  all  the  family  at  the 
Grange,  and  for  Aubrey’s.  She  did  hate  him  deeply,  this 
man  who  had  cheated  her  into  making  her  look  upon  him 
as  the  most  gentle,  most  courteous,  brightest  of  compan- 
ions and  the  most  devoted  of  friends,  when  he  was  really 
nothing  but  a volatile,  unprincipled  flirt,  who  made  love 
indifferently  to  her,  or  to  a coarse  woman  like  Miss  West, 
or  to  a little  giddy  creature  like  the  girl  to  whom  Miss  Tay* 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


16^ 


lor  had  said  he  was  engaged.  Perhaps  Annie  hardly 
dwelt  enough,  in  her  blame  of  Aubrey,  on  the  question 
whether  she  herself  had  done  right  in  concealing  from  him 
the  fact  that  she  was  married,  and  whether,  even  suppos- 
ing she  had  been  free,  as  he  imagined  her  to  be,  he  would 
not  have  been  justified  in  thinking  no  more  of  a lady  who 
had  dismissed  him  and  disappeared  without  a word,  and 
in  transferring  his  attentions  to  women  who  would  appre- 
ciate them  more  highly.  But  with  all  her  blame  was 
mingled  sincere  anxiety  for  him,  and  unselfish  sorrow 
that  he  should  have  fallen  into  bad  hands. 

As  for  her  own  husband,  she  felt  more  kindly  toward 
him  now  that  she  was  away  from  the  daily  irritation  of  his 
presence,  from  the  fear  of  his  trivial  jealousy,  of  his  impos- 
sible demands.  Their  impossibility  she  could  not  question. 
She  felt  that  she  could  never  return,  with  the  ardor  which 
alone  would  content  him,  the  passionate  love  she  had  in- 
spired in  a nature  so  different  from  her  own,  and,  as  it 
seemed  to  her,  so  antagonistic  to  it.  The  most  that  she 
could  hope  for  was  that,  if  his  affection  should  indeed  re- 
main warm  until  next  Christmas,  when  she  had  promised 
to  return  to  him,  the  nine  months  of  hard  work  upon  the 
stage  which  she  was  about  to  commence  would  have 
wearied  her  into  the  semblance  of  contentment  with  a life 
so  distasteful  to  her  active  mind  as  permanent  idleness  at 
the  Grange  with  her  uncongenial  husband  would  be. 

She  had  caught  an  earlier  and  faster  train  from  Beck- 
ham than  the  one  by  which  she  had  intended  to  travel,  so 
that  she  arrived  in  London  and  drove  to  the  house  where 
Miss  Taylor  had  taken  apartments  for  her,  two  hours  be- 
fore the  time  at  which  the  landlady  expected  her.  The 
consequence  was  that  tne  dirty  servant  who  opened  the 
door  led  her  up  to  a dingy  and  cheerless  sitting-room  on 
the  second  floor,  the  grate  of  which  was  empty;  and 
Annie’s  heart  sunk  with  a feeling  of  unutterable  wretched- 
ness and  desolation  as  she  sat  shivering,  with  her  mantle 
still  round  her,  on  the  dusty  little  sofa,  watching  the  dirty 
servant  as  she  knelt  on  the  hearth-rug  and  tried,  for  a 
long  time  in  vain,  to  coax  some  spluttering,  damp  little 
sticks  and  a handful  of  slaty  coals  into  a fire.  When  it 
was  sufficiently  ignited  to  smoke  violently,  she  retired,  satis- 
fied, leaving  Annie  to  cough  and  choke  and  shiver,  and 
wish  herself  back  again  at  the  Grange. 

It  was  all  her  own  fault  that  she  was  catching  cold  in  an 
uncomfortable  lodging,  instead  of  being  well  cared  for  in 
the  midst  of  her  husband’s  family.  The  gratification  of 
her  ambition,  which  had  brought  her  to.  this  cheerless 
welcome,  seemed  an  unsatisfactory  sort  of  reward  at  this 
moment  for  the  sacrifice  she  had  made  alike  of  comfort 


168 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


and  duty— for  self-reproach  for  her  own  hardness  had 
been  busy  at  Annie’s  heart  since  she  received  her  hus- 
band’s farewell  kiss  that  morning. 

At  last,  after  emitting  gusts  of  black  blinding  smoke, 
each  one  of  which  grew  feebler  than  the  last,  the  fire  went 
out  altogether;  and  Annie  was  reduced  by  this  time  to  too 
spiritless  a state  to  ring  the  bell  and  go  through  another 
ordeal  of  smoke  and  servant. 

“ I suppose  they  will  come  up  at  tea-time,”  she  thought, 
as  she  went  listlessly  into  the  bedroom  and  began  to  un- 
pack. 

Dusk  was  coming  on  when  she  heard  a knock  at  the 
sitting-room  door. 

“Come  in!”  she  called  out  from  where  she  knelt  by  her 
trunks.  Then  she  heard  no  more,  and  began  to  think  she 
must  have  been  mistaken,  when  the  knock  was  repeated. 
“ Come  in!”  she  cried  a second  time;  and  then  she  heard 
the  door  open,  and  a man’s  tread  in  the  next  room. 

She  rose  from  her  knees,  went  in  to  the  sitting-room, 
and  found  herself  face  to  face  with  Aubrey  Cooke,  who 
was  standing  in  his  usual  stooping  attitude,  looking  paler 
and  plainer  than  ever,  with  some  parcels  in  his  hands. 

He  was  shy,  nervous,  and  stood  there  without  a word  to 
say  for  himself.  But  the  sight  of  a familiar  face  in  this 
desolate,  cheerless  place  had  restored  Annie  in  a moment 
to  life  and  animation. 

“Mr.  Cooke!”  she  cried,  as  she  went  forward  and  shook 
hands  with  him.  “How  kind  of  you!  How  did  you 
know  I was  coming?  I am  so  very  glad  to  see  you!” 

Her  face  had  recovered  its  light,  her  eyes  were  spark- 
ling with  their  old  brightness.  Aubrey  got  back  his  self- 
possession  as  he  looked  at  her,  and  began  slowly  laying 
down  his  parcels  upon  the  table  and  taking  more  from  his 
pockets. 

“ Miss  Taylor  told  me  you  were  coming,  and  my  unfailing 
instinct  told  me  that,  being  a lady,  you  would  have  for- 
gotten to  have  all  the  arrangements  necessary  for  your 
comfort  made  before  your  arrival.  Now  you  shall  see 
whether  I have  forgotten  how  to  do  marketing.  There  is 
the  twopenny  cottage,  there  is  the  superior  souchong,  and 
there  is  the  oleomargarine — th^  very  best.  And  that  is 
for  you.” 

He  gave  her  a little  box,  which  she  opened  and  found  to 
contain  ferns  and  gardenias.  She  sat  down  and  handled 
them  lovingly,  with  the  simple  pleasure  of  a child,  and, 
when  she  looked  up,  she  found  Aubrey  raking  out  the 
coals  of  the  extinct  fire  with  a poker. 

“Never  mind;  leave  it  alone.  It  is  out;  and,  if  I ring 


A VAGRANT  WIFE.  169 

and  make  the  girl  light  it  again,  she  will  only  fill  the  room 
with  smoke.  I am  not  very  cold.” 

Indeed  for  the  moment  she  had  forgotten  that  she  was 
cold ; but  she  shivered  now  and  then. 

“ But  I am.  Now  you  shall  see  what  it  is  to  have  a uni- 
versal genius  about  you.  In  ten  minutes  my  art  will  pro- 
duce from  this  gloomy  heap  of  cinders ” 

*“  A cloud  of  thick  black  smoke  which  will  suffocate  us 
both.  Don’t  be  silly,  Aubrey;  do  leave  it  alone!”  said 
Annie,  petulantly,  condescending  to  struggle  for  the  poker. 

But  he  would  not  let  it  go;  so  she  resigned  herself  to 
watching  while  he  broke  up  the  little  fragile  box  which 
had  held  the  flowers,  took  the  paper  off  his  other  parcels, 
and  set  to  work  earnestly  to  make  a fire. 

“ You  will  look  just  like  a sweep  when  you  have  fin- 
ished,” said  Annie,  with  resignation. 

“A  little  soap  and  water  will  remove  all  traces  of  the 
deed.” 

“Oh,  of  course,  if  you  like  to  play  at  maid- of -all- work!” 
said  she,  contemptuously.  Her  spirits  were  rising  again 
to  the  level  of  the  old  days  when  she  and  he  were  on  tour 
with  the  Comedy  Company. 

He  rose  superior  to  her  scorn,  for,  after  a little  trouble 
and  one  or  two  more  gusts  of  smoke,  the  fire  began  to  burn 
up  brightly. 

“Now  ring  for  a kettle,  and  let  us  make  tea  ourselves,” 
said  he. 

She  rang,  the  tea-things  were  brought  up,  and  in  a few 
minutes  Annie,  refreshed  and  comforted,  was  listening  to 
his  account  of  his  movements  since  they  last  met. 

“I  have  created  two  characters,  invented  a new  soup, 
written  a book,  cut  it  up  myself  in  two  papers,  discovered 
my  ideal  woman  two  or  three  times,  had  two  bad  colds  and 
one  attack  of  neuralgia,  lost  fifteen  pounds  at  cards,  and 
narrowly  escaped  being  married.” 

“ To  one  of  the  ideals?” 

“Of  course  not.  One  never  marries  one’s  ideal.  No; 
this  was  to  be  the  loveliest  of  her  sex.  Happily  a man 
turned  up  at  the  last  moment  who  had  a prior  claim  to  her 
hand,  and  I was  saved.” 

“ Happy  woman !” 

“ I see  you  don’t  look  at  the  case  from  my  point  of  view, 
Miss  Langton.” 

“No;  I take  up  the  cause  of  my  sex  against  you.” 

“ That  is  unkind.  She  treated  me  very  cruelly,  I assure 
you.” 

“ For  which  and  for  your  consequent  deliverance  from 
the  trammels  of  constancy  you  are  very  grateful.” 


no 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


“Do  you  think  I am  inconstant,  Miss  Langton?”  he 
asked,  with  sudden  gravity. 

“ I am  inclined  to  think  so,  certainly;  but  I look  upon 
it  as  a very  fortunate  provision  of  nature,  ’ ’ said  she,  half 
laughing  nervously. 

“ Then  you  are  wrong.  If  I am  inconstant  it  is  by  phi- 
losophy, and  not  by  disposition.  You  know,  when  people 
have  toothache  very  badly  they  sometimes  hold  things 
that  burn  in  their  mouths,  so  that  the  small,  sharp  new 
pain  may  make  them  forget  for  the  moment  the  old  dull 
one.” 

“ What  a romantic  simile!” 

“So  a man,  when  he  has  been  badly  treated  by  one 
woman  whom  he  did  care  for,  tries  to  find  consolation— 
and  does  so  find  it  very  often — in  flirtations  with  a dozen 
other  women  who  have  no  power  to  make  his  heart  throb 
faster,  but  who  can  make  the  time  pass  pleasantly 
enough.” 

“ I have  heard  that  sort  of  excuse  from  inconstant 
people  before,  and  I think  it  a very  clever  one.” 

“ And  what  excuse  have  you  heard  from  the  woman 
who  was  the  cause  of  the  inconstancy?” 

Annie’s  cheeks  flushed  as  she  still  looked  steadily  at  the 
fire.  He  was  taking  her  to  account  for  her  treatment  of 
himself.  After  a few  moments’  hesitation  she  answered, 
in  a light  tone: 

“You  are  talking  too  vaguely;  put  before  me  a clear 
case  of  a woman  having  done  wrong  to  a man,  which 
forced  him  to  seek  relief  in  inconstancy,  and  I will  plead 
her  cause  and  confound  you.” 

“ Very  well.  Suppose  that  a man  had  admired  and 
shown  his  admiration  of  a woman  who  had  rather  re- 
served manners  to  most  people.  Suppose  that  her  reserve 
with  him  had  gradually  given  way,  until  she  allowed  him 
to  be  her  constant  companion,  treated  him  with  at  least 
the  show  of  complete  confidence,  exchanged  opinions 
freely  with  him  on  every  subject,  and  allowed  her  ap- 
parent preference  for  his  society  to  be  taken  for  granted.” 

“Did  she  allow  him  to  make  love  to  her?” 

“No,  she  did  something  more  dangerous;  she  allowed 
him  to  make  love  to  every  woman  but  her.  He  was  too 
much  in  earnest  to  flirt  with  her,  and  she  must  have 
known  it.” 

“ I think  that  is  an  absurd  conclusion  to  come  to,  that 
the  woman  must  have  known  he  loved  her  because  he 
didn’ t tell  her  so.  If  women  were  to  go  by  such  a rule  in 
all  cases ” 

4 4 But  listen.  At  Inst  one  day—  or  rather  one  November 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


171 

hight — he  did  let  her  know  in  words  that  he  loved  her,  and 
she — she  made  him  think  that  his  words  agitated  her.” 

“Perhaps  they  did — perhaps  they  agitated  her  disagree- 
ably. They  must  have  done  so,  if  she  was  unprepared 
for  them  as  you  have  made  out.” 

“ But  later  on  she  gave  him  an  unmistakable  proof  that 
her  liking  and  trust  were  as  strong  as  ever.  And  then 
again  she  avoided  him ; and,  when  he  insisted  on  an  inter- 
view and  an  explanation,  she  put  him  off  by  telling  him 
there  was  an  obstacle  between  them,  but  still  without  tell- 
ing what  that  obstacle  was.” 

“What  did  it  matter  what  it  was,  as  long  as  it  was  in- 
surmountable? That  was  all  that  could  concern  him.” 

“ He  ought  to  have  been  told  what  it  was,  so  that  at 
least  he  might  not  be  left  to  think  that  it  was  merely  an 
excuse  to  get  rid  of  a man  of  whom  she  had  grown  tired. 
But  she  had  another  surprise  in  store  for  him ; she  dis- 
appeared without  letting  him  know  what  had  become  of 
her.” 

“And  he  has  spent  his  time  ever  since  in  a vain  and 
romantic  pursuit  of  her?” 

“ Oh,  dear,  no ! He  went  back  to  town,  furnished  a new 
set  of  chambers,  and  has  grown  more  particular  about  his 
cooking.” 

“ And  you  hold  him  up  as  an  object  of  sympathy?  He 
is  a man  to  whom  an  offer  of  sympathy  would  be  an  im- 
pertinence.” 

“He  does  not  want  sympathy,  but  justice;  and,  if  he 
cannot  get  that,  he  will  have  revenge— and  melodramatic 
revenge,  of  course,  but  small,  spiteful,  mean,  and 
modern!” 

“ I don’t  think  such  a threat  would  frighten  her  from 
you.” 

“ You  are  trying  to  pique  me.” 

“I!  Oh,  no!  What  interest  can  1 have  in  the  mat- 
ter?” 

“ Can  you  give  me  your  assurance  that  you  have  none?” 

The  sudden  intensity  of  his  manner  would  have  forced 
some  show  of  emotion  from  Annie  if  she  not  been  on  her 
guard. 

“ I take  an  interest  in  the  affairs  of  any  friend  who  has 
shown  me  as  much  kindness  as  you  have,  Mr.  Cooke,” 
said  she,  gravely,  and  with  a little  stiffness. 

Aubrey  was  silent  for  a few  minutes. 

“Thank  you!”  he  said,  dryly,  after  clearing  his  throat 
two  or  three  times. 

Annie  felt  that  the  conversation  had  got  to  a difficult 
point,  and,  to  avoid  the  awkwardness  of  the  pause  which 
followed,  she  rose.  He  rose  too. 


a Vagrant  wife. 


11% 

“ I have  intruded  upon  you  too  long,  Miss  Langton;  you 
must  want  rest  and  quiet  after  your  long  journey,”  said 
he,  in  a casual-visitor’s  tone,  which  deceived  Annie  until 
she  saw  by  the  fading  daylight  that  he  was  as  pale  as 
death,  and  that  his  lips  were  quivering. 

“I  cannot  thank  you  enough  for  coming.  I should 
have  been  so  very  dull  here  all  alone  on  the  first  evening 
of  my  return,  if  it  had  not  been  for  your  charity,”  said 
she,  with  as  much  vivacity  as  she  could  put  into  her  tone 
and  manner. 

“ It  was  my  duty,  you  are  in  my  ‘ district.’  May  I come 
again?”  She  hesitated. 

“Don’t  be  unkind.  I’ve  been  very  good,  haven’t  I?” 
said  he,  softly. 

“ I think  you  had  better  not  come  again,  Mr.  Cooke.  It 
is  different  in  the  country,  you  know ; but  here,  in  town, 
the  least  thing  is  noticed  and  talked  about.” 

“When  do  you  play  in  ‘Nathalie  ’?” 

“I  think  in  a fortnight  or  three  weeks.” 

“It  will  be  longer  than  that.  In  the  meantime,  you 
won’t  be  rehearsing  every  day,  and  on  the  off-days  you 
will  be  frightfully  dull — or  won’t  you?” 

She  turned  away  irresolutely. 

“ Lert  me  come  sometimes,  and  I won’t  abuse  the  permis- 
sion;” and  she  let  him  go  without  a definite  answer. 

It  was  quite  true  that  she  would  be  dull  and  miserable 
by  herself ; she  felt  that  as  soon  as  she  heard  his  footsteps 
going  down-stairs.  She  wanted  to  go  to  the  door,  call  him 
back,  and  tell  him  to  come  again  soon ; she  even  crossed  the 
room  to  do  so,  but  she  turned  back  and  sunk  into  a chair, 
ashamed  of  the  impulse,  for  she  knew  that  there  was 
danger  in  his  society.  She  felt  that  her  indignation 
against  him  had  faded  away,  that  his  presence  had  soothed 
her  weary,  excited  mind  as  the  presence  of  no  other  person 
in  the  world  could  have  done,  and  that,  if  she  saw  much 
more  of  him,  she  would  inevitably  come  to  depend  upon 
his  companionship  as  she  had  done  when  they  were  on 
tour  together.  It  had  been  harmless,  pleasant  intercourse 
then;  but  Aubrey’s  words  on  that  November  night  had 
changed  all  that;  and  Annie  knew  she  ought  to  have  sum- 
moned courage  to  tell  him  that  very  afternoon  what  the 
nature  of  the  obstacle  between  them  was.  But  it  was  so 
much  pleasanter  and  even  easier  to  skate  over  the  difficult 
matter  of  her  sudden  disappearance,  and  to  avoid  the 
“ scene  ” which  the  tragedy-manner  Aubrey  had  assumed 
when  they  approached  this  subject  had  threatened. 

“ I certainly  did  not  encourage  him  to  come,”  said  she 
to  herself,  with  a twinge  of  conscience.  “Of  course  it 
does  not  really  matter  whether  he  comes  or  not,  except 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


in 

that  Harry  would  make  a silly  fuss  if  he  knew  that  any- 
body Who  was  at  all  young  or  nice  came  to  see  me.  But 
there  is  nothing  really  for  him  to  be  jealous  about ; and, 
after  all,  I cannot  shut  myself  up  quite  like  a nun  just  be- 
cause my  husband  is  ill-tempered.” 

So,  when  Aubrey  called  two  days  afterward,  and  had 
the  sense  not  to  make  any  allusion  to  his  love-grievances, 
she  was  very  glad  to  see  him,  and  flattered  herself  with 
the  thought  that  he  understood  that  there  was  no  further 
question  of  a warmer  sentiment  than  friendship  between 
them.  In  this  belief  she  was  justified,  for  Aubrey  had 
decided  upon  his  line  of  conduct,  and  fell  into  the  position 
of  brotherly  old  friend  in  the  most  natural  manner  in 
the  world. 

After  a few  visits,  during  none  of  which  did  Aubrey  re- 
call, by  word  or  look,  his  old  love  or  its  disappointment, 
she  fell  into  her  former  perfectly  open  and  unreserved 
manner  with  him,  and  felt  unspeakably  grateful  to  him 
for  the  good  sense  which  had  restored  the  old  frank  com- 
panionship between  them.  She  grew  happy  again,  attrib- 
uted the  change  in  her  spirits  to  the  prospect  of  her  speedy 
reappearance  on  the  stage,  and  wondered  how  she  could 
have  remained  so  long  away  from  it.  Under  the  influ- 
ence of  these  brighter  feelings  she  wrote  an  affectionate 
letter  to  her  husband,  with  a little  compunction  at  not 
having  responded  more  warmly  to  his  kindness  when  she 
was  at  the  Grange. 

Two  days  later,  as  Aubrey  was  leaving  her  sitting-room, 
where  he  had  spent  the  greater  part  of  the  afternoon, 
after  bringing  her  some  books  from  Mudie’s,  he  met  the 
servant  coming  up  the  stairs,  followed  by  a tall,  fair  young 
man.  Annie’s  voice  had  just  called  out,  “I  shall  expect 
you  then!”  and  Aubrey  had  scarcely  closed  the  door  be- 
hind him,  when  the  servant  reached  the  top  stair. 

He  stood  on  one  side  to  let  them  pass,  but  the  fair  young 
man  sent  the  servant  down  stairs  by  a few  words  spoken 
in  a low  voice,  and  stood  face  to  face  with  Aubrey  just  out- 
side Miss  Langton’s  door. 

“ These  are  Miss  Langton’s  apartments,  I believe?”  said 
the  stranger. 

“ Yes,  ” answered  Aubrey,  deciding,  as  he  looked  at  the 
angry  face  and  impatient  movements  of  the  man  in  front 
of  him,  that  this  was  some  bumpkin  admirer  of  the  clever 
young  actress,  who  looked  upon  him  as  a rival.” 

“And  you  are  one  of  Miss  Langton’s  friends,  I sup- 
pose?” 

“I  have  the  honor  of  being  one  of  her  oldest  friends,” 
said  Aubrey,  coolly. 

A deep  flush  spread  over  the  face  of  the  other  man,  who 


i?4  A VAGRANT  WlFF. 

was  evidently  keeping  himself  in  check  by  a strong  effort 
of  self-control. 

“ May  I ask  what  your  name  is?”  he  asked,  curtly. 

“By  what  right  do  you  ask  such  a question  which  can- 
not concern  you?” 

“That  is  my  affair;  and  you  need  not  make  such  a mys- 
tery about  it,  because  I know  who  you  are.  Your  name  is* 
Cooke — Aubrey  Cooke!” 

“ Well,  what  then?” 

“ What  then?  Why,  my  name  is  Harold  Braitliwaite !” 
But  this  announcement  produced  none  of  the  effect  ho 
evidently  expected.  The  pale,  ugly  young  man  still  re- 
turned his  look  quite  steadily,  without  expressing  any 
sort  of  emotion. 

“I  dare  say  it  is,”  said  he,  simply — “ why  not?” 

“Look here,”  said  thestranger,  dropping  his  voice  till  it 
became  a growl  of  passion.  “ I don’t  want  a scene  here. 
You  had  better  go.” 

But  Aubrey  stood  his  ground  very  calmly. 

“ I am  no  more  anxious  for  a scene  than  you  are,  I as- 
sure you.  But,  as  you  are  a complete  stranger  to  me,  and 
can  produce  no  authority  for  dismissing  me,  I must  de- 
cline to  move  until  I have  given  you  a little  piece  of  advice. 
Don’t  venture  to  dismiss  a lady’s  friends  without  her  au- 
thority  ” 

“I  don’t  use  her  authority;  I use  my  own.” 

“ And  you  think  that  will  be  enough  for  me?” 

“ I think  it  ought  to  be.” 

“Do  you  know  who  the  lady  is  you  are  speaking  about 
so  confidently?” 

“ Yes.  You  know  her  as  Miss  Langton,  the  actress.” 
“And  you?” 

“ As  Annie  Braith waite — my  wife!” 

Aubrey  stood  the  shock  well,  but  not  too  well  for  the 
other  man  to  see  that  his  announcement  was  a terrible 
surprise.  This  conversation  had  been  carried  on  in  low 
tones;  but,  as  Harry  raised  his  voice  on  his  last  words, 
Annie,  in  the  sitting-room,  had  recognized  it;  and  she 
opened  the  door  and  faced  the  two  men,  white  and  trem- 
bling. 

“ Harry!”  said  she,  in  a low  voice. 

“Is  it  true,  then,  that  this  man  is  your — husband?” 
asked  Aubrey. 

“Yes,”  answered  she,  hanging  her  head,  and  without 
looking  at  him. 

“I  must  apologize  for  my  discourtesy,”  said  Aubrey, 
still  white  and  shaking,  turning,  without  another  look  at 
her,  to  Harry.  “ I had  always  understood  that  Mr. 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 17fc 

Braithwaitte— was  a short  man;”  and,  raising  his  hat,  h© 
went  down  stairs. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

Annie  stood  with  her  husband  at  the  top  of  the  stairs 
until  she  heard  the  street  door  shut  upon  Aubrey  Cooke ; 
then,  recovering  her  self-command,  she  turned  and  said, 

“ Won’t  you  come  in?”  and  led  the  way  into  her  sitting- 
room. 

Harry  followed,  and  stood  at  first  speechless  with  anger  l 
in  the  middle  of  the  small  room,  while  his  wife  moved  rest- 
lessly toward  the  fireplace.  Then,  beginning  to  perceive 
that,  for  once,  her  self-possession  was  no  greater  than  his 
own,  he  found  words. 

“ So  this  is  what  your  ‘ ambition,’  your  ‘ love  of  work  ’ 
means!” 

“ What  do  you  mean?” 

“ What  do  I mean?  You  know  very  well  what  I mean ! 
Do  you  think  I couldn’t  see  through  the  farce  your  4 oldest 
friend  ’ played  to  shield  you?  Do  you  think  I don’t  know 
that  this  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  heard  of  me? 
When  I told  him  my  name,  it  was  easy  enough  to  see  that 
it  meant  nothing  to  him.  Answer  me  this : did  he  or  did 
he  not  know  you  were  married?” 

He  was  working  himself  up  to  a white  heat  of  passion, 
and  Annie  feared  for  the  consequences  of  any  admission 
she  might  make  while  he  was  in  this  mood.  She  tried  to 
delay  explanation  by  going  to  him,  taking  his  hand,  and 
attempting  to  draw  him  to  a seat  by  the  fire. 

Dusk  was  coming  on,  and  he  could  not  clearly  see  her 
face  as  she  approached  him  with  bent  head,  but  he  felt 
that  the  hands  into  which  she  was  trying  to  draw  his 
were  cold  and  trembling.  He  would  not  move  from 
where  he  stood ; but,  with  a sudden,  almost  rough  motion, 
he  raised  her  head  and  peered  down  into  her  averted  eyes. 
She  shrunk  from  the  unexpected  ordeal,  and  tried  to  edge 
away  from  him  with  an  involuntary  eagerness  which  in- 
censed him  still  more  against  her. 

“Is  this  all  the  answer  you  have  to  give  me?  You 
can’t  meet  my  eyes,  you  shrink  away  from  my  touch! 
Is  this  the  welcome  a good  wife  gives  to  her  husband? 
Annie,  answer  me ! Did  that  man  know  you  were  mar- 
ried?” 

“ Harry,  let  me  go ! You  are  hurting  me ! I cannot  an- 
swer you  anything  until  you  let  me  go.  See  the  mark  you 
have  left  upon  my  wrist ! How  can  you  be  so  brutal?” 

44  You  are  not  going  to  put  me  off  like  that,”  said  Harry, 
firmly,  “I  know  how  you  women  will  wriggle  out  of  a 


*76 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


subject  you  don’t  like,  if  you  can.  I am  sorry  if  I have 
hurt  you:  you  know  very  well  I did  not  mean  to  do  that; 
but  I will  be  answered.  Now  sit  down  and  get  quite  quiet 
and  calm.  I won’t  hurt  you,  whatever  you  say;  but  you 
must  tell  me  the  whole  truth,  because,  if  you  tell  me  any 
lies,  I shall  find  them  out  and  be  very  angry  about  it.” 

His  manner  had  grown  calmer  the  moment  he  saw  the 
red  mark  his  strong  hand  had  made  on  his  wife’s  wrist, 
and  felt  how  utterly  powerless  in  his  grasp  the  little  creat- 
ure was.  He  placed  her  gently  in  the  very  chair  she  had 
tried  to  induce  him  to  take,  and  then  stood  before  her, 
towering  above  her,  and  without  turning  his  eyes  again 
toward  the  chair  in  which  she  sat,  gravely  and  doggedly 
waiting. 

Annie  felt  cowed.  For  the  first  time  in  their  lives,  the 
husband  stood  in  the  position  of  the  superior,  and,  as  she 
sat  guiltily  there,  understanding  clearly  for  the  first  time 
that  her  husband  had  just  right  of  complaint  against  her, 
and  that,  moreover,  he  was  using  that  right  with  con- 
sideration and  manliness,  she  gave  a shy  look  upward,  as 
if  to  see  what  change  this  inversion  of  their  old  attitudes 
toward  each  other  had  wrought  in  Harry’s  handsome, 
careless,  boyish  face. 

It  was  too  dark  for  her  to  see  very  clearly  what  little  of 
his  profile  was  shown  in  that  position ; she  could  only  see 
that  he  stood  very  still,  that,  if  he  felt  impatience,  he  was 
keeping  it  under  strong  control,  and  she  began  to  feel 
dimly  that  in  the  argument  which  was  coming  he  would 
meet  her  for  the  first  time  upon  equal  terms.  As  she  still 
sat,  with  her  head  raised,  looking  up  anxiously  at  him,  he 
turned  and  his  qyes  met  hers. 

“ Are  you  ready  now?”  he  asked,  simply. 

“ Ready  for  what?”  said  she,  impatiently. 

“ Ready  to  answer  some  questions  I have  to  ask  you.” 

“ Of  course  I can  answer  any  questions  you  please;  but 
I don’t  see  the  necessity  of  all  this  fuss  about  the  mat- 
ter. Whatever  you  have  to  ask  I could  have  answered  a 
longtime  ago,”  said  Annie,  indifferently.  “But  if  you 
like  to  play  inquisitor  and  give  yourself  the  airs  of  a judge, 
why — it’s  nothing  to  me!” 

“ Can  we  have  the  gas  lighted?”  asked  Harry.  “ I can’t 
see  your  face.” 

She  rose  and  lighted  it  herself,  rather  reluctantly. 
She  would  have  preferred  that  the  interrogation  she 
would  have  to  submit  to  should  have  been  made  in  the 
twilight.  However,  he  was  not  in  a mood  to  be  argued 
with,  so  she  sat  down  again  in  the  gas-light,  with  some 
work  in  her  hand. 

“You  don’t  want  that  for  a few  minutes,”  said  her  hus« 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


177 


band,  taking  from  her  hands  the  stage-cap  she  was 
making.  V.T.  want  you  to  look  at  me.” 

So  she  submitted  again,  with  a shrug  of  the  shoulders 
and  a little,  contemptuous  laugh,  which  was  rather  forced, 
and  raised  her  restless,  dark  eyes  to  his  steady,  blue  ones, 
with  an  affectation  of  indifference  which  did  not  even  ir- 
ritate him. 

“Won’t  you  sit  down?  I can’t  look  at  you  without 
cricking  my  neck  while  you  stand  towering  above  me 
like  that!”  said  she. 

“Thank  you.  I don’t  think  I could  sit  down  here 
quietly  with  you  until  I was  a little  more  sure  than  I am 
of  the  footing  on  which  T am  here,”  returned  Harry;  and, 
for  the  first  time,  she  noticed  a nervous  movement  of  his 
left  hand. 

He  stepped  back  from  her  a little,  however,  so  that  she 
could  see  his  face  without  inconvenience,  and  she  noticed 
that  he  looked  thin,  that  he  had  lost  his  bright  color,  and 
that  the  steady,  set  expression  of  his  face  made  him  look 
much  older  than  when  she  had  left  the  Grange. 

“I  don’t  understand  you!  Please  let  me  know  clearly 
what  cause  of  complaint  you  have  against  me  that  makes 
you  behave  in  such  a strange  manner  to  me,”  said  Annie 
haughtily. 

But  she  was  not  quite  at  ease ; this  character  of  culprit 
was  new  to  her,  and  it  did  not  sit  so  well  upon  her  as  the 
equally  unaccustomed  character  of  judge  seemed  to  sit 
upon  her  husband. 

“Who  was  that  man  I met  outside  your  door  just  now?” 
“Mr.  Aubrey  Cooke,  a man  who  was  acting  at  the  Re- 
gency Theater  when  I was  there.  You  must  have  heard 
me  speak  of  him  as  one  of  my  oldest  friends  upon  the 
stage.” 

“One  of  your  oldest  friends?  That  is  what  he  called 
himself.  But  the  servant  told  me  he  was  a relative  of 
yours,  who  came  to  see  you  nearly  every  day.” 

“ I am  not  answerable  for  the  creations  of  a housemaid’s 
fancy.  Certainly  neither  Mr.  Cooke  nor  I ever  told  her  he 
was  a relative  of  mine.” 

“ But  he  comes  to  see  you  nearly  every  day?” 

“Not  so  often  as  that;  but  he  comes  very  frequently. 
Why  should  he  not?  I am  at  liberty  to  choose  my  own 
friends,  and  he  is  one  of  the  best  I have.” 

“ Then  why  did  you  not  introduce  him  to  me  just  now 
when  you  came  out  of  your  room  and  found  us  both 
there?” 

“ I was  too  much  taken  by  surprise ” 

“ And  terror — that  is  what  your  face  showed.” 

“I  thought  you  had  had  some  quarrel,  you  looked  so 


178 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


angry;  I did  not  know  What  to  think;  and  the  next 
minute  Mr.  Cooke  was  gone.” 

“It  was  the  first  time  he  had  heard  you  were  married, 
was  it  not?” 

Annie  hesitated  for  one  moment;  then  she  said: 

“He  always  knew  me  as  Miss  Langton,  like  the  rest  of 
my  theatrical  friends.  I don’t  know  whether  he  had 
heard  I was  married ” 

‘That  is  a lie,  Annie!”  he  burst  out,  with  a suddenness 
which  made  her  start.  “You  silly  woman,  why  don’t 
you  tell  me  the  truth?  For  the  truth  I will  have;  and,  if 
I have  to  get  it  from  anybody  but  you,  it  will  be  the  worse 
for  you  and  for  him  too.” 

Annie’s  gaze  sunk  under  the  fierceness  which  blazed  in 
his  eyes  and  recalled  to  her  mind  his  old  savagery  at  the 
Grange.  He  lowered  his  voice  again  as  he  saw  her  shrink. 

“Annie,  don’t  let  me  fancy  you  have  anything  to  tell 
me  worse  than  I have  thought,”  said  he,  with  a tremor  in 
his  voice.  “You  need  not  be  afraid  of  me;  I will  listen 
calmly  to  whatever  you  have  to  say.  I haven’t  always 
been  a good  husband  to  you,  and  I feel  it  quite  as  much  as 
you  do.  But  I have  been  fond  of  you,  and  good  to  you 
lately,  and  you  might  trust  me  a little,  if  only  for  the  sake 
of  that.  Now  tell  me!  You  do  like  this  Mr.  Cooke,  don’t 
you?” 

“ Yes,  of  course  I like  him,  or  I should  not  let  him  come 
and  see  me.  ’ ’ 

“And  he  likes  you?” 

“ If  he  did  not,  he  would  not  take  the  trouble  to  come.” 

“And  if  it  had  not  been  for  my  existence,  I suppose ” 

“ You  have  no  right  to  suppose  anything,”  said  Annie, 
impatiently;  “ there  is  nothing  to  suppose.  You  are  the 
only  person  who  has  ever  found  the  slightest  fault  with 
my  conduct.  There  is  no  cause  whatever  for  your  trifling 
jealousy,  any  more  than  there  was  at  the  Grange,  where 
you  teased  me  to  death  with  your  absurd  suspicions.” 

“ But  you  treated  my  jealousy  differently  then.  It  was 
trifling  and  tiresome,  I dare  say.  But  you  just  laughed  it 
off  lightly  then,  while  now  you  grow  impatient  and  rest- 
less under  it.” 

“You  see  I have  been  left  in  peace  lately,  and  am  not 
consequently  in  such  a high  state  of  discipline  as  when  I 
was  at  the  Grange.  I should  have  been  better  prepared 
if  I had  guessed  that  your  jealousy  would  bring  you  up  to 
town.” 

“ It  was  not  my  jealousy  which  brought  me,  Annie,  but 
something  which  I believe  you  care  about  just  as  little — 
my  love.  I got  a letter  from  you  yesterday — you  seem  to 
iiave  forgotten  all  about  it,  or  perhaps  you  wrote  it  just  as 


A VAGRANT  WIFE a 


179 


a blind — I don’t  know— and  you  said  iri  it  ydli  often 
thought  of  the  Grange,  and  you  supposed  by  this  time  I 
could  ride  again  as  well  as  ever,  and  had  nearly  forgotten 
all  about  such  a trifling  thing  as  a wife.  I got  the  letter 
at  breakfast,  and  I said  to  myself,  4 The  little  jade  is  try- 
ing to  pique  me ! Then  she  does  care  about  whether  I 
forget  her  or  not!’  And  I made  up  my  mind  directly  I’d 
come  and  see  you  all  unexpectedly,  and  see  what  you 
would  say.  And  I didn’t  make  too  sure  you  would  be 
glad ; but,  by  Jove,  I didn’t  expect  quite  such  a cool  wel- 
come as  I got!”  And  Harry’s  voice  gave  way  just  as  ho 
reached  the  last  words,  and  he  leaned  his  elbow  on  the 
mantel-piece  and  dropped  his  head  into  his  hand,  with  hi& 
back  to  her. 

Annie  was  touched,  and  she  rose,  with  tears  in  her  eyes, 
and  crept  up  to  him,  and  took  his  other  hand.  But  he 
shook  her  off,  and  remained  quite  unsoftened  by  her  tear- 
ful eyes. 

44  Don’t  come  and  hang  about  me  now,  Annie,  and  speak 
to  me  in  your  cooing  voice,  when  I know  you  wish  me  a 
hundred  miles  away,  or  I shall  think  your  caresses  were 
never  worth  having,”  said  he,  passionately.  44  And  I 
thought  I could  trust  you ; I thought  you  were  so  good,  so 
pure!  Even  when  I was  jealous,  I never  thought  you 
would  pass  yourself  off  as  an  unmarried  girl,  just  that 
you  might  be  made  love  to  by  other  men — and  when  you 
knew  all  the  time  how  fond  I was  of  you,  Annie!” 

44  Harry,  Harry,  do  listen  to  me!  I am  not  fond  of  any- 
body else — I have  not  been  made  love  to.  Why  won’t  you 
believe  me?  Look  at  yourself  in  the  glass,  and  see  if  you 
are  not  more  likely  to  please  a woman’s  fancy  than — than 
Mr.  Cooke— or  anybody.” 

He  had  turned  to  look  wistfully  and  reproachfully  down 
at  her,  and  she  had  seized  the  opportunity  to  fasten  her- 
self coaxingly  on  his  arm,  and  to  raise  her  other  hand  to 
his  face  to  try  to  turn  it  toward  the  glass  over  the  man- 
tel-piece. 

Harry  was  not  vain,  and  his  own  face  had  no  particular 
attraction  for  him;  he  gave  a glance  at  the  reflection  of 
the  little  white  fingers  which  were  holding  his  chin,  and 
then  he  took  her  hand  gently  from  his  face  and  looked  at 
her. 

44 1 don’t  set  up  for  a beauty-man,  and  lots  of  the  actors 
you  meet  are  handsomer  than  me,  I dare  say.  But  it  is 
more  than  I can  understand  how  you  could  like  an  ugly, 
washed-out,  long-nosed,  lank-haired  hunchback  like  that 
fellow  I met  outside!  It  is  rather  hard  to  be  shunted  for 
a man  who  isn’t  even  straight!” 

Annie  winced  under  the  speech ; but  she  said ; 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


180 

“Then  how  can  you  be  so  absurd  as  to  be  jealous  of  a 
man  who  stoops — you,  who  are  as  straight  as  an  arrow?” 

“Ah,  my  limbs  are  all  right;  it  is  my  head  you  com- 
plain of!”  answered  poor  Harry,  pitifully.  “ I believe  my 
heart  is  all  right,  too,  only  that  doesn’t  seem  to  matter  to 
you  clever  women.  I suppose  that  stooping  fellow  can 
talk  by  the  yard.” 

“Mr.  Cooke  can  ride  and  drive,  too,”  said  Annie, 
quietly.  “Men  who  talk  well  can  do  other  things,  too, 
very  often.” 

“He  can  stick  on  a Park  hack,  or  drive  a dog-cart  a 
couple  of  miles  without  coming  to  grief,  I dare  say,”  re- 
turned Harry,  in  a louder  voice.  “ But  do  you  think  he 
could  break  in  an  animal  that  had  thrown  every  groom  in 
the  stable,  or  ride  as  straight  as  I can  across  country,  or 
train  a racer?” 

“ I don’t  suppose  he  is  as  much  at  home  in  a stable  as 
you  are,  certainly,”  said  Annie,  coldly,  “or  that  any  of 
the  actors  I know  are  so  well  able  to  beat  a groom  at  his 
own  work.  I must  do  you  so  much  justice.” 

“ Thank  you.  It  is  very  clever  of  you  to  snub  me  like 
that;  and  I dare  say  you  think,  if  I had  any  proper  pride, 
I ought  to  go  away  after  you  have  so  plainly  let  me  know 
how  my  vulgar  stable-talk  bores  you.  But  I sha’n’t,” 
continued  Harry,  doggedly.  “ I was  foolish  to  let  you  go 
away  from  me,  and  I was  foolish  to  come  after  you ; but, 
now  l am  here,  I mean  to  stop.”  And  he  flung  himself 
down  into  a chair. 

“You  mean  to  stay  here!” 

“ Yes;  and,  when  I go  away,  I mean  to  take  you  with 
me.” 

“ Oh,  indeed!  Against  my  will?” 

‘ 4 1 hope  not — not  if  what  you  said  to  me  a little  while 
ago  is  true,  Annie;”  and  he  leaned  toward  on  his  elbows, 
with  such  wistful  earnestness  in  his  face  and  voice  that 
his  wife  was  forced  to  listen.  “You  say  you  are  not  fond 
of  anybody  else,  you  say  nobody  else  has  been  making 
love  to  you,  and  you  tell  me  I’m  so  handsome  that  I need 
not  be  afraid  of  anybody  else.  Well,  if  all  that  is  true,  and 
I'm  such  a nice,  good-looking  fellow,  and  you  are  so  anx- 
ious to  cling  to  my  arms  and  caress  me  and  introduce  me 
to  your  friends,  why  on  earth,  as  soon  as  I turn  up,  do  you 
want  to  be  rid  of  me  again?” 

“ I don’t  want  to  be  rid  of  you.  But  I am  not  going  to 
be  treated  like  a child,  as  if  I could  not  be  trusted  alone.” 

“Well,  I don’t  think  any  woman  can,  when  she  has  a 
husband  whose  duty  it  is  to  look  after  her.” 

“Oh,  your  opinion  of  a husband’s  duty  was  not  always 
so  high,  I think!” 


A VAGRANT  WIFE, 


181 


u No,  it  wasn’t.  But  I am  all  the  more  bound  to  fulfill 
it  well  now,  when  I have  neglected  it  so  long.  Annie, 
don't  be  hard.  Why  did  you  come  to  me  when  I had  got 
used  to  being  without  you,  if  you  only  meant  to  show  me 
what  a brute  I was,  and  then  repulse  me  when  I tried,  for 
your  sake,  to  be  something  better?  You  don’t  know  how 
you  have  hurt  me  this  afternoon  by  showing  me  how  sorry 
you  were  to  see  me  again;  I don’t  think  I ever  felt  so 
knocked  over  as  when,  after  I had  met  that  fellow  and 
knew  who  he  was — for  I’m  not  such  a booby  as  you  sup- 
pose, and  I knew  you  liked  that  ugly  Maypole  better  than 
me— you  just  said  ‘Harry!’  without  a smile  or  the  least 
sign  of  pleasure  when  you  saw  me.  I felt  as  if  you  had 
stuck  a knife  into  me.” 

He  stopped  for  a few  moments,  his  voice  all  husky. 

“ And  then  see  how  good  I’ve  been  to  you!  I’ve  never 
even  said  a harsh  word  to  you,  though  I know  many  hus- 
bands who  would  have  said  horrid  things  to  their  wives  if 
they  had  caught  them  like*  that.  But  I swore  to  William 
that  I would  be  very  gentle  to  you,  even  if  you  were  not 
glad  to  see  me.  I don’t  know  what  made  him  guess  you 
wouldn’t  be;  but  I'll  just  punch  his  head  for  being  so 
clever  when  I get  back.  And  haven’t  I kept  my  word? 
If  I had  been  so  clever  as  these  men  you  know,  who  can 
do  everything,  I should  have  been  sarcastic:  and,  instead 
of  that,  I have  let  you  be  sarcastic,  and  I haven’t  even 
sworn  at  you ;”  and  Harry  looked  up  at  his  wife  pleadingly, 
yet  proudly,  as  if  the  force  of  conjugal  affection  and 
manly  self-restraint  could  no  further  go. 

“ Harry,  indeed  I am  glad  to  see  you,  and  sorry  you  are 
still  so  thin.  I should  have  told  you  so  long  ago  if  you 
had  let  me.  But  you  made  such  a furious  onslaught  upon 
me  at  once.” 

“Very  well  then;  we’ll  let  by-gones  be  by-gones,  and 
you  shall  come  back  with  me,  and  we’ll  be  as  happy  as 
crickets,”  said  he,  affectionately,  as  he  jumped  up  from 
his  chair  and  was  on  his  knees  beside  her,  with  his  arm 
round  her,  in  a minute. 

“But,  Harry,  I can’t  do  that.  I am  under  an  engage- 
ment now  which  I am  bound  to  fulfill.  And,  remember, 
we  were  not  at  all  like  happy  crickets  when  we  were  at 
the  Grange  together.” 

“No,  the  Grange  is  a beastly  old  place,  and  nobody 
could  be  happy  there;  I don’t  wonder  you  got  moped,”  he 
answered,  hastily.  “Now  in  town  it  is  different.  There 
is  so  much  to  be  done  in  London,  such  a lot  to  be  seen,  so 
— so  many  books  and — and  picture-galleries  and  pretty 
dresses  and  clever  people.” 

“But  you  don’t  care  for  those  things,  Harry,” 


m A VA&RANT  WIFE. 

“ Yes,  I do — at  least,  I shall  when  I’ve  been  with  ybii  & 

little  while.  And  I’ve  quite  taken  to  reading,  and 

Oh,  I shall  get  on  capitally!” 

“ But  what  would  you  do  without  your  dogs  and  your 

horses,  Harry?” 

“Do  you  think  I can’t  get  on  without  dogs  and 
horses,”  said  he  impatiently.  “I  suppose  you  think  I 
can’t  be  happy  unless  I am  loafing  about  a stable  with 
my  inferiors— only  you  wouldn’t  call  them  my  inferiors!” 
“How  silly  you  are,  Harry!  When  have  I said  any- 
thing like  that  to  you?” 

“ You  did  only  a few  minutes  ago.” 

“ I did  not  mean  it.  I think  it  is  a pity  for  you,  who 
are  devoted  to  the  life  of  a country  gentleman,  to  give  up 
all  your  pleasures  just  to  settle  down  to  a life  which 
would  not  suit  you.  ’ ’ 

“But  it  isn’t  just  for  that,  Annie;  that  is  where  you’re 
wrong.  If  I cared  for  nothing  but  the  country,  I should 
stay  there.  I can  get  on  without  horses,  though  I am  fond 
of  riding  and  driving,  as  you  know;  and  I can  get  on 
without  dogs,  though  I miss  old  Ponto  every  other  min- 
ute; but  I can’t  get  on  without  you,  Annie.  I have  tried, 
but  it  is  no  good ; so,  as  you  won’t  come  into  the  country 
with  me,  I must  come  to  town  to  you.” 

Annie  was  silent,  more  puzzled  by,  than  grateful  for, 
this  devotion.  Then  she  said,  in  a low  voice: 

“ I can’t  accept  such  a sacrifice,  Harry.” 

“ Then  will  you  come  back  to  the  Grange  with  me?” 

“ I can’t  do  that  I have  accepted  an  engagement,  and 
I must  go  through  with  it.” 

4 ‘ What  makes  you  so  much  more  particular  about  the 
engagement  which  binds  you  to  act  so  many  times  a week 
for  a certain  manager  than  about  the  one  you  are  under 
to  me,  your  husband?” 

“ That  is  not  fair.  You  allowed  me  to  make  this  engage- 
ment.” 

“ Well,  I don’t  ask  you  to  break  it.  All  I ask  is  to  let 
me  stay  with  you  and  take  care  of  you.” 

“But,  Harry  dear,  you  would  be  very  uncomfortable 

here.  The  rooms  are  so  small  and  so  shabby ” 

“Well,  come  with  me  to  the  Bingham  Hotel;  they  have 
nice  big  rooms  there,  and  we  shall  be  very  comfortable.” 

“ But  they  are  frightfully  expensive!” 

“Never  mind  that.  George  forked  out  this  morning;  he 
had  kept  me  very  short  for  a long  time,  so  he  gave  me  a 
check,  and  told  me  it  was  the  last  I should  see  of  his 
money — with  a black  look,  to  prevent  the  pleasure  from 
being  too  much  for  me.  That  is  just  like  George,  you 
know.” 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


im 


“ But  perhaps  he  meant  it;  and,  if  so,  you  ought  to  be 
careful.” 

“So  I will  be  careful,  and  you  shall  help  me.  I’ll  give 
it  all  to  you  to  take  care  of  as  soon  as  I get  it  cashed. 
Fifty  pounds  will  last  a long  time.” 

“ And  before  that  is  gone  I shall  be  earning  a better 
salary  than  I ever  had  in  my  life!”  said  Annie. 

4 4 But  I sha’n’t  live  upon  your  money.  Do  you  think  I 
would  sponge  upon  my  wife?  I am  not  going  to  give  you 
a chance  of  despising  me  again.” 

44  Then  what  will  you  do  when  the  fifty  pounds  are 
gone?” 

44  Write  to  George  for  some  more,  of  course.” 

44  But  supposing  he  could  not  or  would  not  send  you  any 
more?” 

“Supposing  the  skies  were  to  fall?  Go  and  pack  up 
your  trunks,  my  darling,  and  we’ll  go  off  and  have  a new 
honeymoon — only  this  time  you  shall  have  a kind  hus- 
band instead  of  a cross  one !’  ’ 

There  was  no  resisting  him  in  his  imperiously  loving 
mood ; and  Annie,  scarcely  yet  understanding  this  new 
situation  of  affairs,  went,  with  the  husband’s  hands  gently 
pushing  her,  into  the  next  room ; and  while  she  was  busily 
filling  her  trunks,  she  heard  him  ring  the  bell,  order  the 
week’s  bill  and  pay  it;  then  he  burst  into  the  room,  threw 
his  arms  round  her,  and  gave  her  a huge  hug  as  she  was 
closing  the  last  box,  and  whispered : 

44  This  is  tremendous  fun — running  away  with  one’s  own 
wife!” 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

Annie  felt  a curious  and  altogether  new  sensation  as  she 
submitted  to  be  carried  off  to  the  hotel  by  her  husband, 
whom  success  in  this  small  enterprise  had  restored  to  the 
happiest  and  most  affectionate  of  humors.  It  was  the  first 
time  since  the  early  days  of  their  marriage,  when  the 
privilege  had  soon  palled,  that  she  had  gone  about  with 
him  as  a protector,  and  the  pride  and  pleasure  in  the  po- 
sition which  he  ingenuously  showed,  surprised  and 
amused  her. 

They  were,  as  he  had  predicted,  very  comfortable  at  the 
hotel.  With  astonishing  tact,  Harry  forebore  to  press  his 
grievances  against  his  wife,  and  devoted  himself  to  ban- 
ishing the  remembrance  of  the  44  clever  man  who  could  do 
everything”  by  taking  her  to  theaters  and  picture-galler- 
ies, and  to  the  park,  and  to  expensive  dinners  at  the  best 
restaurants,  with  an  assiduity  which  could  not  fail  to 
touch  her.  Indeed  Annie  did  not  quite  know  what  a happy 


184 


-4  VAGRANT  WIFE. 


passage  in  her  life  this  was  until  after  it  was  over.  She 
wished  to  be,  and  she  thought  she  was,  tormented  a little 
by  self  reproach  caused  by  her  bad  treatment  of  Aubrey 
Cooke ; but  the  feeling  was  not  strong  enough  to  outweigh 
the  delightful  sense  of  repose  she  began  to  feel  in  the  con- 
sciousness that  she  was  surrounded  by  a great  love.  Her 
husband  was  so  watchful,  so  affectionate,  refrained  so  con- 
sistently from  exacting  demands  of  demonstrative  fond- 
ness from  her,  that  she  had  no  time,  no  excuse  for  such  a 
sentiment  as  real  regret.  He  insisted,  against  her  will, 
upon  taking  her  to  and  from  the  theater  to  rehearsal,  and 
asked  her,  when  she  objected,  whether  she  was  ashamed 
of  him. 

“ If  you  are,  say  I am  an  old  servant  of  the  family,” 
said  he,  proudly. 

But  Annie  silenced  him  imperiously ; and  the  confession 
she  made  in  the  theater  that  she  was  married,  and  that 
the  handsome  young  fellow  who  brought  her  backward 
and  forward  was  her  husband,  while  it  brought  down  upon 
her  some  accusations  of  coquetry,  sent  her  up  in  popular 
opinion  as  the  possessor  of  such  a tall,  well-bred-looking 
lord  and  master. 

Life  had  gone  on  very  smoothly  in  this  way  for  nearly 
a week,  and  it  was  the  day  before  the  opening  night  of 
“Nathalie,”  when  Harry,  finding  himself  at  the  end  of 
his  ready  money,  thought  of  changing  his  check. 

In  the  evening  Annie  noticed  that  he  was  rather  preoc- 
cupied during  dinner,  and  when  she  asked  whether  he 
had  got  some  gloves  he  had  promised  her,  he  said  he  had 
not  been  able  to  get  them  yet,  but  she  should  have  them 
on  the  morrow. 

“Did  you  change  the  check,  Harry?  You  said  you 
would  give  the  money  to  me  to  take  care  of,”  she  sug- 
gested, laughing. 

“ No,  I haven’t  changed  it.  The  fact  is,”  he  continued, 
seeing  a look  of  perplexity  on  his  wife’s  face.  “George 
has  overdrawn  his  account  a good  deal,  and  they  won’t 
cash  such  a big  check  until  they  have  heard  from  him.” 

“ But  fifty  pounds  is  not  such  a very  large  sum;  and 
your  family  has  banked  there  for  years  and  years,  I know. 
Doesn’t  it  seem  rather  strange,  Harry,  that  they  should 
refuse  when  they  know  you  so  well?” 

This  was  a rather  unfortunate  suggestion,  as  the  char- 
acter of  the  Braithwaite  boys  had  not  always  stood  high 
in  money  matters;  but  Harry  only  said: 

“ Oh,  it  will  be  all  right,  of  course!  I wrote  to  George 
this  afternoon,  and  I shall  get  an  answer  to-morrow  or 
Monday.  Don’t  you  feel  awfully  nervous  about  to-morrow 
night?” 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


185 


“ Indeed  I do.  If  it  were  not  for  the  way  you  take  me 
about  and  divert  my  thoughts,  I believe  I should  make 
myself  ill  by  the  way  I worry  myself  about  it.  I must 
go  now;  rehearsal  begins  at  seven,  so  I shall  be  wanted  at 
half-past.” 

This  was  the  night  rehearsal,  on  the  eve  of  the  produc- 
tion of  the  new  piece.  For  a week  the  manager  had  not 
slept,  weighted  with  doubts  about  the  success  of  a per- 
formance which  had  cost  him  months  of  thought,  care 
and  actual  labor  of  body  and  mind.  He  was  a popular 
man,  and  the  members  of  the  company  sympathized  with 
him,  though  their  own  lesser  responsibility  sat  far  more 
lightly  upon  them,  and  the  greenroom  during  the  last  re- 
hearsals, when  doubts  far  outweighed  hopes  regarding  the 
piece  they  were  all  at  work  upon,  rang  with  laughter  as 
the  foremost  wits  of  the  company  made  cruel  jokes  upon 
the  “ governor  ” and  his  troubles. 

The  next  morning,  just  as  Annie  was  starting  for  the 
last  rehearsal  of  all,  a telegram  came  for  her  husband.  He 
read  it  and  thrust  it  into  his  pocket  without  any  remark 
and  without  any  offer  to  show  it  to  her.  She  was  getting 
used  to  quiet  self-reliance  on  her  husband’s  part:  but  this 
action  surprised  her. 

“ From  George?”  she  asked  rather  diffidently. 

“Yes.  Stephen  is  coming  up  this  morning  to  see  me, 
with  statements  from  George — not  very  cheerful  ones,  I 
fancy.  But  don’t  trouble  your  head  about  that,  darling, 
or  you  will  be  unfit  for  to-night.  We  shall  pull  through 
right  enough,  never  fear!” 

“Why,  I am  not  nearly  so  anxious  as  you  are,  Harry! 
I shall  get  my  salary  next  week— six  guineas— and  then, 
if  we  only  live  a little  more  economically,  we  shall  get  on 
splendidly.” 

“Yes,  yes;  it  will  be  all  right.  There  is  the  hansom 
outside.  I must  send  you  alone  this  morning,  my  darling, 
for  I must  stay  at  home  to  see  Stephen  when  he  comes. 
Good-bye— good  luck  to  you,  Annie.” 

He  put  her  carefully  into  the  hansom,  giving  her  hand 
a tender  lover- like  little  squeeze  as  he  helped  her  in,  and 
went  back  into  the  hotel  for  his  cigar-case,  to  pass  away 
the  time  with  a cigar  as  he  walked  up  and  down  outside, 
waiting  for  his  cousin. 

When  she  returned  from  rehearsal,  in  a hansom  by 
Harry’s  orders,  she  found  Stephen  waiting  outside  the 
hotel  to  receive  her.  He  was  looking  pale  and  anxious, 
and  she  asked  him  hurriedly  what  was  the  matter. 

“ Come  in  and  I’ll  tell  you,”  said  he. 

He  led  her  into  the  coffee-room,  which  was  empty. 


186 


A PAGEANT  WIPE. 


“You  have  bad  news,  Stephen,  I am  sure!  What  is  it? 
Where  is  Harry?” 

“ He  told  me  to  break  it  to  you.  He  has  quite  given 
way  under  it.  You  will  try  not  to  be  very  much  shocked, 

won’t  you?  It  is  about  George.  He ’r 

“Not  dead?”  whispered  she,  white  to  the  lips. 

“Oh,  no;  he  is  quite  well!  But  he  has  smashed  up.” 
“Poor  fellow!”  said  she  sympathizingly,  but  much  re- 
lieved. “ Is  he  really  quite  ruined?” 

“Yes,  I am  afraid  so;  he  has  been  in  difficulties  for  a 
long  time  now,  you  know.  The  Grange  will  have  to  be 
sold,  of  course ; but  it  and  the  land  are  so  heavily  mort- 
gaged that  that  won’t  relieve  him  much.  He  has  expected 
the  crash  for  a long  time,  and  Wilfred  and  I had  some 
notion  of  it  too ; but  Harry  never  dreamed  of  such  a thing, 
and  it  has  knocked  him  over  altogether.” 

“ But  why  does  he  take  it  so  much  to  heart?  He  will 
be  better  off  than  anybody  now  I’ve  got  such  a good  en- 
gagement.” 

“ It  seems  he  wanted  to  persuade  you  to  give  up  acting 
and  go  and  live  with  him  at  the  Grange;  he  told  William 
and  me  so  just  now.” 

“William!” 

“Yes:  I brought  him  up  with  me,  and  he  is  with  Harry 
now,  unless  Harry  has  turned  him  out  of  the  room ; for, 
when  your  husband  said  you  were  growing  fond  of  him, 
William  said  that  was  nonsense,  and  I had  a lot  of  trouble 
in  getting  them  to  leave  each  other  alone.” 

“ But  it  is  true,  and  it  was  very  wrong  of  William  to 
contradict  him.  He  has  been  very  kind  to  me,  and  I am 
quite  glad  that  at  last  I can  do  something  for  him.” 

“Frankly,  Annie,  I don’t  think  he’ll  let  you.  He  is 
very  obstinate,  you  know,  when  once  he  gets  an  idea  into 
his  head ; and  he  has  taken  to  thinking  that  it  would  be 
beneath  his  dignity  to  live  on  your  earnings.  And  really, 
you  know,  I think  he  is  right.” 

“But  how  is  he  to  live  any  other  way?” 

“I  don’t  know,  I am  sure;  I think  that  is  what  is 
bothering  him,  and  the  thought  that  he  will  have  to  leave 
you.” 

“ But  he  mustn’t  do  that.” 

“ Then  you  had  better  go  and  tell  him  so;  he  has  been 
crying  about  that.  He  says,  just  as  you  were  beginning 
to  like  him,  all  liis  work  is  undone  again,  and  you  will 
call  him  a loafer.” 

“I  will  go  to  him,”  said  Annie;  and  she  left  Stephen, 
and  went  up-stairs  to  her  sitting-room,  where  William 
rushed  at  her  directly  she  opened  the  door. 

She  saw  that  Harry  was  lying  on  the  sofa,  with  his  face 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


181 


in  the  cushions ; but  she  could  not  get  at  him  at  once,  for 
“the  child  ” was  dancing  round  her,  glancing  at  Harry,, 
and  crossing  his  fingers  with  an  expressive  grimace,  to 
intimate  that  his  brother  was  in  a bad  temper  and  had 
better  be  left  to  the  solitary  enjoyment  of  it. 

“He  will  only  snap  at  you,”  whispered  he,  as  Annie 
pushed  past  him  gently  and  went  toward  the  sofa;  and 
William,  with  his  soft  whistle,  went  out  of  the  room. 

She  passed  her  fingers  through  her  husband’s  rough  hair, 
and  turned  his  face  gently  toward  her.  She  could  see  that 
he  had  been  crying,  and,  with  a sudden  great  tenderness, 
she  drew  his  head  on  to  her  breast  and  kissed  him  without 
a word. 

It  was  only  by  a great  effort  that  he  kept  back  the  tears 
which  came  to  his  eyes  again  at  this  demonstration;  and 
Annie  wondered  how  it  was  that  he  was  so  much  over- 
come. 

“Don’t  give  way  like  this,  Harry,  I can’t  understand 
you,”  said  she  reprovingly,  as  he  sat  by  her  side  and  drew 
her  toward  him. 

“It  is  very  hard  for  poor  old  George,  especially  as  he 
has  known  so  long  that  it  was  coming;  but  William  is 
provided  for,  as  your  uncle  in  Ireland  is  looking  after 
him,  and  Stephen  has  a little  money  of  his  own  and  Lilian 
is  all  right,  and  you  and  I will  have  plenty  of  money  next 
week.” 

But  Harry  bounced  up  from  the  sofa  at  this  point  saying 
that  it  was  luncheon- time,  and  she  must  be  starving  after 
her  long  rehearsal;  and  ten  minutes  later  they,  with  Will- 
iam and  Stephen,  were  sitting  together  at  table,  trying  to 
divert  their  thoughts  from  their  gloomy  prospects  by  talk- 
ing of  the  piece  Annie  was  to  play  in  for  the  first  time  that 
night. 

As  soon  as  luncheon  was  over,  Harry  insisted  upon 
making  his  wife  lie  down  to  get  some  rest  before  the  ex- 
citing duties  of  a “ first  night”  began.  Sleep  was  out  of 
the  question  for  her;  she  lay  repeating  the  words  of  her 
part,  which  she  had  known  for  weeks,  in  a fever  of  unnec- 
essary anxiety,  lest  the  words  should  slip  from  her  mem- 
ory at  the  last,  or  lest,  in  the  excitement  of  the  all-impor- 
tant first  performance,  she  should  hurry  her  speeches 
unduly — a fault  to  which  she  was  prone. 

Harry  softly  opened  the  door  from  time  to  time  and 
crept  in,  sometimes  without  her  even  hearing  him.  He 
always  found  her  engaged  in  the  same  way,  softly  going 
over  her  lines  to  herself,  and  each  time  he  retreated,  look- 
ing harassed,  and  rather  disappointed. 

They  had  dinner  early,  for  she  had  to  be  at  the  theater 
At  half  past  seven.  Harry  went  with  her,  and,  as  they 


188 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


drove  along  together  in  a hansom,  he  was  very  quiet  and 
silent,  holding  her  hand  in  his,  and  speaking  only  in  an- 
swer to  her.  If  she  had  not  been  so  greatly  preoccupied 
by  anticipations  of  the  night’s  performance  and  nervous- 
ness about  her  own  share  in  it,  she  must  have  noticed  that 
there  was  still  something  unaccounted  for  in  the  unusual 
gravity,  which  was  not  sullenness,  of  her  hushand’s  man- 
ner. As  they  drove  up  to  the  stage- door  she  noticed  that 
he  was  shaking  like  a girl. 

“You  are  not  well,  Harry,”  she  said,  anxiously.  “What 
is  the  matter  with  you?” 

“ It  is  only  about  you,”  said  he,  in  a low  voice. 

“Oh,  I shall  be  all  right;  through  all  my  excitement  I 
feel  sure  of  that!  Why,  you  are  more  nervous  for  me 
than  I am  for  myself ! Look  here,  Harry — I am  sure  you 
are  not  well;  the  shock  you  had  this  morning  has  been  too 
much  for  you.  Don’t  come  for  me  to-night— indeed,  there 
is  no  need ; I will  send  for  a cab  and  come  back  as  safely 
as  possible.” 

Rather  to  her  surprise,  he  said  quickly,  as  he  helped  her 
out  of  the  hansom : 

“Yes,  yes,  that  will  be  the  best;  I am  not  very  well,  I 
think  William  shall  bring  you  home.” 

He  had  paid  the  fare,  and  they  had  reached  the  stage- 
door  together.  Two  of  the  actors  were  outside,  and  they 
raised  their  hats  and  began  speaking  to  Annie.  Without 
pausing  in  her  talk,  she  gave  her  hand  lightly  to  her  hus- 
band, as  he  stood  there  still,  anxious  to  be  with  her  as  long 
as  he  could.  She  felt  again  that  his  hand  was  trembling, 
and  she  turned  to  him  to  say : 

“ Don’t  watch  the  piece,  Harry;  it  will  make  me  more 
nervous  than  ever  to  know  that  you  are  sitting  in  front,  in 
a fever  lest  I should  make  some  slip.” 

“I’m  all  right;  I must  see  you  through  it,”  said  he, 
huskily ; and  he  snatched  away  his  hand,  and,  wishing  the 
others,  whom  he  knew,  good-evening  and  success,  went  off 
very  quickly,  almost,  it  seemed  to  Annie,  as  if  he  were 
afraid  of  breaking  down  if  he  stayed.  She  went  into  the 
theater  very  much  affected  by  this  proof  of  his  attach- 
ment to  her,  and,  as  she  took  from  the  box  where  they 
had  been  lying  the  flowers  he  had  brought  from  Covent 
Garden  that  afternoon  for  her  to  wear  that  night,  she 
raised  the  heavy  white  roses  and  the  sweet  stephanotis  to 
her  lips  before  she  fastened  them  in  the  front  of  the 
cream- white  muslin  dress  in  which  she  was  first  to  appear. 

The  audien  ces  at  the  fashionable  comedy  theaters  are 
not,  as  a rule,  demonstrative;  but,  when  Annie  came  off 
tbe  stage,  after  her  best  scene  that  night,  she  knew  that 
she  had  macje  a “hit.”  It  was  the  first  distinct,  note- 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


189 


worthy  success  of  her  career,  and  her  heart  beat  fast  as 
she  thought  that  now  she  had  her  foot  firmly  upon  the 
ladder,  and  the  future  seemed  to  be  clear  before  her.  She 
did  not  for  a moment  think  she  had  got  to  the  top ; she 
knew  quite  well  that  struggles  and  some  failures  lay  still 
in  her  path;  but  that  a good  beginning  toward  a prosper- 
ous artistic  career  had  been  made  was  a fact  which  set  the 
blood  tingling  in  her  veins  and  brought  the  fierce  light  of 
hopeful  ambition  into  her  dark  eyes,  when,  her  share  in 
the  work  of  the  evening  over,  she  exchanged  the  dress 
she  had  worn  on  the  stage  for  the  one  in  which  she  had 
come  to  the  theater,  and  went  down  from  her  dress- 
ing-room to  the  greenroom  to  wait  for  the  end  of  the  per- 
formance and  the  final  verdict  of  the  first-night  audience 
upon  the  piece. 

It  was  a favorable  one;  and  Annie  found  her  way  to  the 
stage- door,  on  her  way  out,  with  congratulations  ringing 
in  her  ears  and  the  knowledge  that,  as  certainly  as  cer- 
tainty is  possible  in  theatrical  matters,  the  long  weeks  of 
anxious  and  tedious  rehearsal  were  to  be  rewarded  by  a 
calm  and  prosperous  run  of  the  new  piece. 

At  the  door  she  found  William  dancing  about,  having 
been  with  difficulty  restrained  by  the  hall  doorkeeper  from 
rushing  through  the  door  which  led  on  to  the  stage.  He 
dragged  her  arm  through  his,  and  in  high  glee  helped  her 
into  the  hansom,  and,  as  he  flung  himself  in  afterward, 
began  at  once: 

“Oh,  Annie,  you  were  splendid,  you  were  immense!  I 
didn’t  think  you  could  act  like  that.  It  wasn’t  like  act- 
ing at  all,  I’m  sure,  the  way  you  take  that  toffee!  Oh, 
well,  it  was  just  like  life,  just  like  the  way  you  used  to  go 
on  with  me  at  the  Grange ! Poor,  old  Grange ! I wonder 
if  I shall  ever  see  it  again?” 

“ I used  to  think  of  you  sometimes  at  rehearsal,  when  I 
came  to  that  bit.  Was  Harry  sitting  with  you?” 

“Yes;  he  nearly  went  off  his  head.  He  kept  saying, 
4 Isn’t  she  perfect?  Isn’t  she  lovely?’  And  I had  to  keep 
him  from  jumping  up  two  or  three  times.  I think  if  I 
hadn’t  he  would  have  tried  to  climb  on  to  the  stage  to 
you.” 

“ Dear  old  boy ! How  nice  of  him ! I am  so  glad  he  was 
pleased  with  me.” 

“Well,  I don’t  see  much  merit  in  that.  He  couldn’t 
help  being  proud  of  you  when  all  the  people  about  were 
saying  how  good  you  were.  If  he  had  been  a decent  sort 
of  husband,  he  would  have  waited  himself  to  take  you 
home,  instead  of  telling  me  to  do  so  and  prancing  off  him- 
self goodness  knows  where.” 

“Didn’t  he  say  where  he  was  going?” 


190 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


“ No;  he  knew  better  than  to  tell  me,  because  I should 
have  just  given  him  a bit  of  my  mind  about  it;  but  I’ve 
no  doubt  he’s  gone  off  to  supper  with  somebody  or  other,” 
said  William,  with  rigid  disgust. 

“ William,  how  dare  you  talk  like  that?  Do  you  know 
you  are  speaking  about  my  husband?” 

“ Oh,  yes,  of  course  I know!  Why,  Annie,  you  are  not 
really  angry,  are  you?” 

“ Yes,  I am — very  angry.  When  the  poor  fellow  has 
spent  a miserable  day,  and  made  himself  quite  ill  between 
;his  nervousness  for  me  and  his  grief  over  the  shock  he  had 
this  morning,  you  take  the  first  opportunity  of  abusing 
'him  to  me,  his  wife.  ’ ’ 

“But,  Annie,  you  haven’t  grown  fond  of  Harry,  have 
you?”  said  William,  with  pity  and  fear  in  his  voice. 

“Yes,  I have — very  fond.  I couldn’t  help  it,”  sobbed 
Annie,  apologetically.  ‘ 4 He  has  been  so  kind  to  me 
lately.” 

“Poor  girl!”  said  “the  child,”  with  compassion. 
“Never  mind;  you  will  soon  get  over  it  when  he  leaves 
you  alone  again,  and  you  are  full  of  your  success  on  the 
stage,  and  people  will  crowd  round  you  and  compliment 
you  and  tell  you  what  a great  actress  you  are,  and ” 

44  When  he  leaves  me  again?  What  do  you  mean?” 

“ Why,  he  will,  Annie— on  some  excuse  or  other,  he 
will.  He  will  never  stay  quietly  in  London  without  any- 
thing to  ride.  I know  Harry.” 

But  she  was  too  indignant  to  let  him  go  on,  and  for  the 
rest  of  the  drive  she  maintained  a frigid  attitude  of 
offended  dignity  toward  her  indiscreet  brother-in-law; 
and  she  repulsed  him  freezingly  when  he  tried  to  kiss  and 
be  friends. 

On  reaching  the  hotel,  she  ran  quickly  up  stairs,  anxious 
to  find  her  husband  and  prove  to  William  that  she  had 
not  overestimated  his  devotion.  But  in  neither  room  was 
he  to  be  found.  On  her  dressing-room  table,  however, 
she  discovered  a note  directed  to  her  in  her  husband’s 
handwriting.  She  tore  it  open;  but  she  was  for  some 
minutes  too  much  excited  and  frightened  to  read  it.  It 
ran  as  follows : 

“ My  darling  Annie,— I dont  know  whether  you  will 
think  I am  doing  something  very  wrong  and  cruel  or 
whether  you  wont  care  a straw.  I am  going  away  though 
I love  you  with  all  my  heart  just  as  much  as  ever  and  it 
hurts  me  awfully  not  to  say  goodby  to  you  even  but  if  I 
did  I know  you  would  ask  me  to  stay  and  I cant  do  that 
and  be  a loafer  and  live  on  your  money  you  would  be 
quite  right  to  despise  me  if  I did  and  say  I was  nothing 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


191 


but  an  idler  like  I used  to  be.  I am  going  to  work.  I 
dont  know  quite  what  I am  going  to  do  but  I cannot  try 
any  what  are  called  gentlemanly  occupations  because  you 
know  I would  be  so  bad  at  them  but  I will  make  some 
money  somehow  and  I wont  steel  it  I promise  you  that  but 
you  must  not  be  too  particular  how  I make  it  as  long  as  it 
is  honestly — will  you  now.  I have  paid  the  bill  and  gone 
to  your  old  lodging  and  paid  the  rent  for  a week  and  the 
gloves  will  be  sent  tonight  and  I leave  you  all  the  money 
I can  to  go  on  with.  I am  going  to  see  you  act  tonight 
and  I know  you  will  be  successfull  becaus  you  are  so 
clever  and  so  pretty  and  all  the  men  will  try  to  turn  your 
head  but  dont  let  them  my  darling  Annie  becaus  all  the 
time  I am  working  for  you  and  mean  to  get  rich  for  you — 
and  now  you  see  I love  you  so  and  only  go  away  becaus  I 
do.  I think  you  will  try  not  to  like  anybody  else — but  to 
think  how  I can  be  nice  to  you  and  make  you  happy  even 
though  I am  not  clever  like  some  of  the  men  you  know. 
I dont  know  exactly  where  I am  going  just  at  first — but  if 
you  write  to  me  and  give  your  letters  to  Stephen  I shall 
get  them  and  he  will  let  you  know  how  I get  on.  You 
will  not  see  me  again  yet  because  it  would  knock  me  over 
just  at  first  and  I know  you  would  not  like  what  I am 
going  to  do  and  you  might  talk  me  out  of  it.  But  I shall 
see  you  very  often  you  may  be  sure  as  long  as-  I have  a 
shilling  to  go  in  the  gallery  with 

“Your  ever  loving  husban 

“Harry.” 

She  found  a sovereign  inside  the  letter  and  the  hotel- 
bill  receipted.  She  did  not  cry,  but  went  into  the  sitting- 
room  where  William  was  waiting  for  her. 

“Annie,  you  are  ill!  You  are  so  white!  You  have 
overexcited  yourself.  Sit  down  and  let  me  get  you  some 
brandy-and- water.” 

“No,  no,  I am  not  ill.  You  were  quite  right,  William; 
Harry  has  left  me  already.” 

The  young  fellow  stood  before  her,  shocked,  silent. 

“Never  mind,  Annie,  you  have  your  old  brother,  ” said 
he,  as  soon  as  he  could  speak,  in  a soothing  voice.  “ Per- 
haps, after  all,  it  was  best  that  he  should  go  soon,  be- 
fore you  had  got  used  to  him,  and  might  have  missed 
him.  Now  I have  an  idea,  Annie,  that  we  might  be 
very  happy  if  you  and  I were  to  take  a cottage— now 
we  are  poor,  it  won’t  run  to  more  than  a cottage — 
and  you  might  keep  house  for  me,  as  lots  of  sis- 
ters do  for  their  brothers;  and  of  course  I couldn’t  be  al- 
ways at  home  because  of  my  military  duties  very  soon,” 
said  he,  proudly,  “but  I could  be  ai ways  running  down 


m ' 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


there,  even  when  I was  away,  and  we  should  be  so  jolly 
together.” 

“My  dear  William;  what  are  you  thinking  about?  I 
am  not  really  your  sister,  you  know,  and  such  an  arrange- 
ment wouldn’t  be  thought  proper.” 

“ Annie,  I am  afraid — I begin  to  think— you  are  really 
fond  of  Harry.” 

“ Yes,  William,”  said  poor  Annie,  while  the  tears  rolled 
down  her  cheeks,  “ I am  afraid— I begin  to  think — I am.” 


CHAPTER  XXin. 

Annie  woke  the  next  morning  with  a dull,  uncomfortable 
sense  of  having  received  a great  blow  which  quite  counter- 
balanced the  ecstasy  of  her  first  stage-success.  She  rea- 
soned with  herself  over  this  feeling,  but  could  not  argue  it 
away.  She  had  indeed  suffered  two  shocks  yesterday — 
the  news  of  George’s  ruin  and  the  threatened  sale  of  the 
Grange  in  the  morning,  and  the  letter  which  announced 
her  husband’s  departure  at  night.  But  the  first  was  an 
event  which  had  long  been  impending,  and  George  himself 
could  scarcely  be  more  unhappy,  now  the  crash  had  come, 
than  he  had  been  during  those  long  months  when  he  had 
felt  that  ruin  was  hanging  over  him;  and,  as  for  the  last, 
a week  ago  there  had  been  no  event  she  had  so  much 
dreaded  as  the  possible  appearance  of  her  husband  in  Lon- 
don. It  could  not  be  that  she  was  so  weak-minded  as  to 
have  changed  in  a week  from  dreading  her  husband’s  pres- 
ence to  desiring  it.  Certainly  Harry  had  been  most  sur- 
prisingly nice,  good-tempered,  and  kind,  quite  different 
from  the  bear  he  used  to  be  at  the  Grange ; she  had  caught 
herself  turning  to  him  for  an  opinion  now  and  then,  led 
away  by  the  authority  he  had  somehow  assumed  in  his 
manner  toward  her;  and  his  replies  on  such  occasions  had 
shown  less  imbecility  than  her  former  contempt  for  his 
ignorance  had  led  her  to  expect.  But  then  this  state  of 
things  could  not  have  gone  on  much  longer  in  any  case; 
such  a very  new  phase  as  Harry’s  angelic  patience  would 
surely  never  have  lasted  more  than  another  day  or  two, 
and  the  reaction  would  probably  have  brought  on  a ter- 
rible fit  of  savagery. 

“Yet  I wish  he  had  stayed  till  then,”  she  thought,  re- 
gretfully. “ He  did  not  seem  to  have  grown  tired  of  being 
nice  to  me,  and  he  was  so  very  sweet  while  it  lasted.  I 
don’t  think  I was  ever  happier  than  I was  last  week,  in 
spite  of  the  fatigue  and  anxiety  of  rehearsals.  I wonder 
where  he  is?  I dare  say  I should  be  very  much  disgusted 
if  I knew.  After  a week  of  no  society  but  mine,  I should 
think  he  must  be  pining  for  some  grooms  or  coachmen  to 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 193 

talk  to.  Very  likely  he  is  enioying  himself  in  some  stable 
at  this  minute.” 

But  she  little  thought  how  shrewd  a guess  she  had  made. 

In  a wistful  and  restless  state  of  mind  she  went  back  to 
the  apartments  in  which  her  husband  had  found  her. 
What  few  friends  she  had  began  to  find  her  out  in  the 
course  of  the  next  few  days,  and  to  call  upon  her  and  in- 
sist upon  her  coming  to  see  them  and  receive  congratula- 
tions upon  her  success  in  “Nathalie.” 

This  recognition  of  her  talent  was  very  pleasant;  but  it 
just  missed  being  the  supreme  joy  she  had  expected  it  to 
be;  and,  in  searching  for  the  reason  of  this  slight  disap- 
pointment, it  occurred  to  her  that  there  was  one  person 
who  ought  to  have  hastened  forward  with  the  rest  of  her 
acquaintance  to  offer  her  the  natural  matter-of-course 
homage  of  a few  complimentary  words  upon  the  hit  she 
had  made  in  the  new  piece.  This  person  was  Aubrey 
Cooke. 

She  had  not  seen  him  since  that  unlucky  meeting  with 
her  husband;  and,  though,  in  the  few  bright  busy  days 
she  had  passed  with  Harry,  she  had  had  little  time  for  un- 
pleasant reflections  of  any  kind,  she  had  by  no  means  for- 
gotten the  friend  whose  visits  and  amusing  talk  had  been 
the  one  compensation  for  the  dullness  of  her  home-life  in 
.London  before  Harry’s  inopportune  appearance. 

Why  did  he  not  come  to  see  her  again,  and  give  her  an 
opportunity  of  explaining  her  silence  concerning  her 
marriage?  He  had  let  fall  no  word,  since  the  day  of  her 
arrival  in  town,  when  she  had  laughed  off  his  sentiment, 
to  let  her  think  that  it  mattered  to  him  whether  she  was 
under  any  engagement  or  not.  Was  he  irretrievably  of- 
fended? If  he  felt  wounded  by  her  want  of  confidence, 
was  it  not  her  duty  to  seek  him  out  herself  and  offer  some 
apology,  rather  than  lose  a friend  by  proud  silence? 

Annie  felt  so  entirely  heart- free  that  no  further  scruple 
about  Harry’s  jealousy  deterred  her  from  taking  such  a 
step.  Since  her  husband  disapproved  of  it,  she  would  tell 
Aubrey  herself  that  she  must  not  receive  him  so  often; 
and,  now  that  her  other  friends  and  acquaintances  were 
flocking  round  her,  she  felt, that  she  was  not  so  entirely 
dependent  upon  him  for  companionship.  So  she  wrote  a 
note  to  him,  as  she  had  often  done  before,  asking  him  to 
meet  her  at  the  “ Stores,”  and  help  her  with  her  shopping. 
She  did  not  expect  an  answer,  for  these  little  civilly  en- 
1 renting  notes  he  always  took  as  commands,  and  she  knew 
he  would  look  upon  it  as  an  appointment.  So,  when  she 
arrived  at  the  “ Stores”  the  next  day,  she  was  not  at  all 
surprised,  or  in  any  way  agitated  to  find  him  there  wait- 
ing for  her. 


194 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


But  she  had  been  but  very  few  minutes  in  his  society 
before  she  noticed  that  there  was  a change  in  his  manner 
toward  her.  She  had  been  much  relieved  to  see  that, 
when  they  first  met,  there  was  no  offended  dignity  in  his 
manner,  no  coldness  in  his  tone;  but  now  she  began  to 
perceive  that  there  was  even  unnecessary  tenderness  in 
his  voice  when  he  spoke  to  her,  and  that  he  drew  her  hand 
through  his  arm  with  a gentle  pressure  which  he  had 
never  attempted  before,  and  when  he  asked  her  to  have 
some  strawberries,  he  called  her  “darling.”  The  next 
moment  he  saw  that  he  had  gone  too  far,  and  turned  off 
his  unlucky  speech  very  cleverly ; but  Annie  felt  fright- 
ened, and,  while  he  gave  her"  no  further  loophole  for 
offense,  she  was  constrained  in  her  manner  and  dismissed 
him  as  soon  as  she  could. 

She  knew  what  she  had  done,  that  the  discovery  of  her 
deceit  about  her  marriage  had  changed  Aubrey  Cooke’s 
estimate  of  her,  and  that  he  had  received  this  last  note, 
written,  as  he  must  have  found  out,  after  the  departure 
of  her  husband,  in  a very  different  spirit  from  the  frank 
camaraderie  with  which  he  had  responded  to  her  former 
appeals  to  him  to  come  and  help  her  with  her  marketing. 
She  knew  that  she  had  deserved  this  severe  wound  to  her 
self-respect,  and  she  went  home  miserable  and  ashamed. 

But  this  difficulty  was  not  yet  over.  At  the  theater  a 
beautiful  bouquet  was  brought  to  her  with  a note — a 
lover-like  note— from  Aubrey.  She  tore  up  the  note,  and 
gave  the  flowers  to  the  dresser.  But  on  the  following 
night  she  received  another  bouquet,  another  note;  and 
on  the  third  night,  this  attention  having  been  again 
repeated,  she  got  a little  teased  by  one  of  her  fellow-actors, 
who  knew  Aubrey  and  had  seen  other  bouquets  of  his 
and  other  notes. 

She  went  home  mad  with  shame  and  anger,  and  wrote 
Aubrey  a curt  note,  asking  him  to  call  upon  her;  and 
when  the  next  day  the  time  she  had  appointed  came  and 
she  heard  his  well-known  tread  upon  the  stairs,  she  felt 
that  her  whole  frame  was  shaking  violently,  and  that  she 
would  have  hard  work  to  receive  him  with  calmness. 

But  he  was  experienced  in  flirtation  as  well  as  in  love, 
and  he  had  far  too  much  tact  not  to  know  that  her  sum- 
mons had  been  dictated  by  some  feeling  which  was  not 
affection.  She  was  obliged  to  take  the  hand  he  held  out 
so  humbly,  and  his  deferential  attitude  somewhat  dis- 
armed her. 

“ I got  your  note  only  just  in  time,  Mrs.  Braithwaite:  I 
was  going  down  to  Kirby  Park  to  see  some  horses  a friend 
of  mine  has  in  training  there.” 

“ I am  sorry  if  my  note  interfered  with  your  day’s  ar 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


195 


rangements.  You  should  have  sent  me  a line  to  say  you 
were  engaged.” 

“ I am  never  engaged  when  you  send  for  me.  You  must 
know  that  by  this  time.” 

Annie  raised  her  head  haughtily,  while  he  continued : 

“ It  is  more  than  eight  months  now  since  you  told  me  I 
was  the  only  person  in  the  world  you  could  depend  upon, 
and  I have  never  failed  you  yet.” 

This  allusion  was  embarrassing,  and  Annie  could  only 
murmur : 

44  You  have  always  been  very  kind.” 

44  And  you  have  put  my  kindness  to  some  hard  tests, 
haven’t  you?  You  have  snubbed  me,  you  have  confided  in 
me — at  least  you  appeared  to  do  so ; you  have  encouraged 
me  to  love  you ” 

44  No,  Mr.  Cooke;  I am  quite  innocent  of  any  such  inten- 
tion.” 

44  Then  your  innocence  served  you  better  than  any  co- 
quetry could  have  done,  Mrs.  Braithwaite.  Having  inno- 
cently encouraged  me  to  love  you,  you  innocently  allowed 
me  to  tell  you  so,  with  only  such  vague  suggestions  of  4 an 
obstacle  ’ as  served  to  make  me  more  anxious  to  win  you. 
When  you  mysteriously  left  the  company,  you  had  man- 
aged to  leave  me  not  altogether  without  hope;  when  I 
saw  you  again,  here  in  town,  you  managed,  without  com- 
promising yourself  in  any  way,  to  make  that  hope  stronger, 
and  it  was  only  when  I met  the  4 obstacle  ’ for  the  first 
time  outside  your  door  that  I was  allowed  to  discover  that 
it  had  any  real  existence.  If  you  had  left  me  alone  then,” 
continued  Aubrey,  in  a lower  voice,  his  agitation  betray- 
ing itself,  in  spite  of  his  efforts  to  repress  it,  in  convulsive 
movements  of  his  features  and  his  hands,  “I  might  at 
least  have  thought  that  you  felt  some  shame  at  the  way 
in  which  you  had  treated  me;  but  you  wrote  me  a little 
note  just  in  the  old  way,  as  if  the  old  relations  between  us 
were  possible.  I knew  your  husband  was  away  again;  it 
was  easy  for  me  to  see  by  the  way  you  met  him  that  you 
hated  him.  I took  your  summons,  when  I at  last  knew 
the  circumstances  of  your  position,  and  of  mine  to  you,  as 
any  man  would  have  taken  it.  You  had  deceived  your 
husband,  you  had  deceived  me;  you  were  not  the  good, 
true  woman  I had  thought  you.  Still,  if  you  wanted  me 
back,  I cared  enough  about  you  still  to  come,  but  not  on 
the  old  terms.  That  was  impossible.  You  were  rather  re- 
served; I thought  it  a trick  of  coquetry,  naturally  enough. 
I sent  you  flowers  and  notes,  such  as  I have  sent  to  othei* 
women  far  less  treacherous,  but  without  any  of  your  pre- 
tensions to  immaculate  conduct.  To  my  surprise,  you  as- 
sume in  return  an  attitude  of  the  most  rigid  dignity  and 


m 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


outraged  propriety — you  have  sent  for  me  to  answer  for 
my  offenses  against  you.  With  far  more  reason  I might 
summon  you— if  you  were  not  a woman  and  therefore 
above  laws  of  justice  and  humanity — to  account  for  yours 
against  me.” 

Aubrey  Cooke  stood  as  erect  as  Harry  himself  could  have 
done  as  he  spoke,  with  feeling  and  with  fire,  these  words 
to  the  woman  before  him. 

She  had  indeed  been  innocent  of  the  depth  of  the  emo- 
tions she  had  stirred  in  this  man  with  the  expressionless 
face  and  hard  voice.  She  had  expected  to  have  some  diffi- 
culty in  arguing  him  into  recognizing  the  fact  that  her  con- 
duct toward  him  had  been  dictated  by  the  best  possible 
motives,  and  that  any  apparent  injustice  she  had  done  him 
was  the  result  of  circumstances ; but  she  had  not  imagined 
for  an  instant  that  he  would  turn  upon  her  with  reproaches 
so  bitter  and  so  well  founded  that  she  would  be  left  with- 
out a word  in  answer.  Yet  it  was  so;  and  Annie  bent  her 
head  for  very  shame  as  the  torrent  of  his  passionate  words 
passed  over  her,  and  she  felt  that  she  was  without  a de- 
fense. 

Then,  seeing  her  so  broken  and  crushed  before  him,  she 
who  had  always  held  herself  so  proudly,  Aubrey  relented 
— for  he  loved  her  still — and,  as  he  saw  the  tears  falling 
slowly  from  her  downcast  eyes  on  to  her  clasped  hands,  he 
fell  upon  his  knees  beside  her,  and  from  the  stern  judge 
became  once  more  the  humble  suppliant. 

“ Annie,  Annie,  never  mind  what  I have  said ! I did  not 
want  to  be  harsh,  only  to  let  you  know — what  I ought  to 
have  kept  from  you,  I suppose.” 

“You  said  I was  wicked,”  sobbed  Annie,  woman  like, 
seizing  the  advantage  which  his  remorse  at  having  caused 
her  tears  gave  her. 

“ Yes,  I know — I was  in  a passion— I didn't  mean  it,  of 
course,  Annie.  You  didn’t  tell  me  you  were  married— be- 
cause you  thought  it  would  hurt  me,  and  you  hated  him, 
and  wanted  to  forget  his  existence.  Well,  you  were  quite 
right ; I could  see  at  a glance  that  he  was  an  ill-tempered 
brute,  and  that  you  were  afraid  of  him.” 

“He  is  not  ill-tempered,”  flashed  out  Annie,  with  sud- 
den fire.  “ And  all  that  I am  afraid  of  is  that  he  won’t 
come  back  to  me,  that  some  one  will  tell  him  that  I am 
happy  without  him,  and  that  he  will  console  himself  be- 
fore I can  let  him  know  it  is  untrue.” 

Aubrey  was  silent  for  some  minutes.  He  detected  in 
this  speech  the  ring  of  genuine  feeling;  and  anger  and  con- 
tempt for  the  woman  before  him,  who  seemed  to  him  at 
that  moment  the  incarnation  of  ficldeuess  and  deceit, 


A VAGRANT  WIFE.  197 

overcame  his  love  for  her  and  raised  him  to  his  feet 
again. 

“ I have  no  doubt  he  will  wake  sooner  or  later  to  a sense 
of  what  a precious  thing  he  is  neglecting  in  your  love!” 
said  he,  in  a biting  voice. 

“Thank  you,”  returned  Annie,  brought  to  herself  at 
once  by  this  taunt.  “ I deserve  every  sneer  you  can  cast 
at  me;  but  you  cannot  make  me  regret  that  I have  at  last 
discovered  the  .worth  of  a man  who  has  suffered  more  at 
my  hands  than  you  have  done  without  casting  at  me  a 
single  taunt.” 

“ I congratulate  you.  I feel— I feel  quite  happy  in  hav- 
ing served  as  a foil  to  such  a perfect  creature.  I won’t 
take  up  any  more  of  your  time,  Mrs.  Braith waite,”  said 
he,  rushing  to  the  door  and  groping  blindly  for  the  han- 
dle, having  forgotten  his  hat  in  his  excitement. 

“Don’t  go  away  like  that!”  said  Annie,  following  him 
and  sobbing,  meekly.  “ I have  behaved  very,  very  badly; 
it  was  all  through  my  conceit  in  thinking  I could  not  do 
anything  wrong  just  because  I did  not  mean  to.  Will  you 
forgive  me,  Mr.  Cooke?” 

“No,  I won’t — I can’t,  Mrs.  Braith  waite !” 

“ Do  forgive  me,  Aubrey!” 

He  held  out  only  one  second  longer,  then  took  her  little 
hands  and  kissed  them  again  and  again. 

“You  are  the  only  woman  who  has  ever  treated  me 
badly,  and  the  only  woman  I shall  ever  care  a straw  about. 
It  is  always  like  that,  I believe.  Good-bye,  Annie.  I shall 
be  married  in  a month,  and  dead  in  two,  I expect.  Good- 
bye.” And  he  tore  a little  rosebud  from  the  bouquet  near 
her  throat,  and  was  out  of  the  room  and  out  of  the  house 
before  she  could  answer. 

Her  faults  were  punishing  her  bitterly  now.  She  threw 
herself  upon  the  sofa  in  an  agony  of  remorse  and  wretch- 
edness, feeling  that  she  had  behaved  badly  all  round, 
that  she  was  abandoned  by  every  one,  and  that  she  had 
deserved  every  pang  which  could  torment  her.  She  had 
trifled  with  Aubrey,  despised  her  husband,  and  now  they 
both  looked  down  upon  her  and  treated  her  as  she  de- 
served. 

When  the  first  excess  of  her  grief  and  humiliation  was 
over,  her  thoughts  all  flowed  into  one  channel,  and  the 
question  which  absorbed  her  was,  would  Harry  ever 
come  back  to  a wife  for  whom  he  must,  in  spite  of  his 
patience  with  her  through  that  week  at  the  end  of  which 
he  had  run  away,  entertain  at  heart  so  great  a contempt? 
She  was  herself  surprised  at  the  persistency  with  which 
her  thoughts  returned  to  the  husband  whom  she  had  so 
chslihed  and  despised  at  the  time  when  no  self  -reproach  at 


198 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


the  faults  in  her  own  conduct  had  risen  to  disturb  the 
placid  superiority  she  felt  over  him. 

She  had  begun  to  fret  herself  into  a fever  of  anxiety  at 
the  thought  that  she  would  never  hear  from  him  again, 
when,  on  her  return  home  from  a walk  one  afternoon,  she 
was  told  by  the  servant  that  a lady  and  gentleman  were 
in  her  sitting  room. 

“ They  did  not  come  together,  ma’am.  The  lady  came 
first,  and  presently  the  gentleman;  and,  when  they  heard 
you  were  out,  they  both  said  they  would  wait  for  you. 
So  I showed  them  both  up-stairs,  ma’am.” 

In  the  sitting-room  Annie  found  Stephen,  whom  she 
had  rightly  guessed  to  be  one  of  the  visitors,  and  Muriel 
West,  whom  she  certainly  neither  expected  nor  wished  to 
see. 

This  lady,  whose  coarseness  had  in  the  very  first 
days  of  their  forced  acquaintanceship  on  tour  disgusted 
Annie,  had  nevertheless  shown  the  latter  so  much  good- 
natured  kindness  in  many  little  ways,  and  notably  when 
the  younger  actress  was  ill  with  neuralgia,  that  it  was  im- 
possible for  her  not  to  receive  the  unwelcome  guest  with 
cordiality. 

Miss  West  had  dyed  her  hair  a new  color  since  their  last 
meeting,  but  the  dye  was  wearing  off;  her  face  was  thin 
and  ghastly,  her  gloves  were  in  holes,  her  dress  was  more 
haphazard  than  ever,  and  her  whole  appearance  suggestive 
of  hard  times  and  even  of  scanty  fare.  She  greeted  Annie 
with  her  old  loud  geniality. 

“ Ah,  Miss  Langton,  you’re  up,  and  I’m  down!  I hardly 
dared  to  come  and  call  upon  such  a howling  swell  as  you 
have  become.  You  are  not  sorry  to  see  an  old  friend 
though,  I see.” 

“I  am  very  sorry  to  see  you  looking  so  ill,  though,” 
said  Annie,  sincerely.  “You  used  not  to  look  like  that  in 
the  country.  You  want  change  of  air.” 

“No,  no,  my  dear;  you’re  wrong  there.  No  agtress 
wants  change  of  air  when  once  she’s  got  to  London.  It’s 
an  engagement  I want.  I’ve  been  out  for  six  weeks,  and 
see  no  prospect  of  being  in  again.  I don’t  know  whether 
you  can  help  me ; but  I’ve  come  to  ask  your  advice  on  one 
or  two  matters.” 

“I  will  come  in  and  see  you  presently,  Annie,”  said 
Stephen,  going  toward  the  door.  “I  have  nothing  much 
to  say  to  you,  and  I came  chiefly  to  see  whether  you  had 
any  commissions  for  me.” 

“ Yes,  yes,  I have!  I have  a letter  for  you  to  take,  and 
I want  to  see  you  most  particularly.  Come  back  and  have 
tea  with  me,  will  you?” 

He  promised  to  do  so ; and  Annie,  wh.Q  was  dying  t q 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


199 


heat*  all  he  had  to  tell  her  about  her  husband,  was  obliged 
reluctantly  to  let  him  go,  and  to  listen  instead  to  the  long 
list  of  grievances  and  complaints  against  London  man- 
agers and  things  in  general  which  Miss  West  proceeded  to 
entertain  her  with  in  language  much  stronger  than  was 
necessary. 

Annie  had  noticed  upon  her  first  entrance  that  Stephen 
and  Miss  West  were  in  animated  converse,  and  that  the 
former  seemed  very  much  engrossed  by  his  companion. 
He  now  turned  with  eagerness  to  her  again,  and  asked 
whether  he  should  have  the  pleasure  of  meeting  her  on  his 
return.  But  Annie  did  nob  invite  Miss  West  to  stay  to 
tea.  So  he  left,  casting  at  the  very  last  moment  an  ardent 
and  expressive  glance  at  the  object  of  his  evident  admira- 
tion. 

The  two  women  had  not  been  many  minutes  alone  to- 
gether before  Annie  discovered  that  the  real  object  of  her 
visitor  was  to  discover  whether  her  more  prosperous  fel- 
low-artist could  oblige  her  with  a loan.  Annie  had  some 
money  to  spare,  and  could  not  refuse,  especially  as  she 
felt  that  fate  had  been  capricious  in  giving  her  a good  en- 
gagement and  the  chance  she  had  pined  for,  while  Miss 
West,  who  she  felt  was  really  the  greater  actress  of  the 
two,  was  out  of  work  and  restlessly  longing  for  an  oppor- 
tunity of  distinction,  as  she  herself  had  so  long  been. 

Miss  West  had  not  been  gone  more  than  a few  minutes 
when  Stephen  returned,  and  Annie  asked  anxiously  for 
news  of  Harry,  which  his  cousin  seemed  chary  of  impart- 
ing to  her. 

“Can’t  you  tell  me  where  he  is  and  how  he  is,  Stephen?” 
she  asked  impatiently. 

“I  can’t  tell  you  where  he  is,  because  he  is  traveling 
about,  and  I don’t  know  myself  where  he  is  at  this  mo- 
ment. But  he  is  quite  well,  and  I haven’t  seen  him  in  such 
good  spirits  for  a long  time.” 

“Oh,”  said  Annie,  her  face  falling  involuntarily.  “I 
/ am  very  glad  to  hear  that ! Does  he— I suppose  he  doesn’t 
speak  of  coming  to  town?” 

“Oh,  dear,  no!  You  know  Harry  hates  town;  he  is 
not  like  the  same  man  now  he  has  got  back  into  the  coun- 
try again,  and  to ” 

Here  Stephen  pulled  himself  up  short  and  Annie  said 
quietly,  with  tightened  lips: 

“ Go  on,  Stephen.  Harry  is  happier  now  he  has  got  back 
to— what?” 

u Oh,  I ‘only  meant  the  country  air  and  the  country  peo- 
ple ! You  know  he  is  a regular  rustic,  and  Londoners  don’t 
suit  him.” 


200 


A VAGRANT  WIPE. 


Annie  gulped  down  the  tears  this  unlucky  speech 
brought  to  her  eyes,  and  said,  with  forced  cheerfulness: 

“ Yes,  he  is,  of  course,  much  happier  in  the  country.” 

“Of  course,”  admitted  Stephen,  guardedly.  “He  has 
sent  you  this  letter.” 

She  tore  it  open.  It  was  only  a short  note,  very  affec- 
tionate, but  with  no  definite  word  concerning  his  own 
movements.  A sudden  impulse  of  angry  pride  seized  her, 
and  shame  at  the  long  letter  she  had  prepared  in  exchange 
for  this  brief,  hurriedly-written  note.  She  took  up  the 
letter  she  was  about  to  send,  and,  excusing  herself  to 
Stephen,  went  into  the  next  room,  tore  it  into  shreds, 
and,  hastily  writing  a note  as  short  and  as  vague  as  her 
husband’s  own,  returned  and  gave  that  as  her  answer. 

They  were  not  long  over  tea,  as  Stephen  seemed  anx- 
ious to  get  away,  and  Annie  herself  was  late  for  the  thea- 
ter. When  he  had  gone,  she  dressed  very  quickly,  and 
followed  him  out  of  the  house  in  a few  minutes.  At  the 
end  of  the  second  street  she  had  to  pass  through,  she  saw 
Stephen  and  Miss  West  standing  in  earnest  conversation. 
She  had  to  pass  them;  but  they  were  too  much  absorbed 
in  what  they  were  saying  to  notice  her  approach. 

When  she  was  near  to  them,  she  heard  Stephen  say 
bitterly : 

“ Of  course  you  like  Harry  better  than  me,  because  he’s 
such  a tall,  straight,  handsome  fellow !” 

4 4 Handsome  is  that  handsome  does.  I like  him  because 
he  likes  me.  You  tell  him  so,  give  him  my  love,  and  say 
he’ll  see  me  before  very  long  if  he’s  a good  boy and  Miss 
West,  with  a laugh  and  a roguish  glance,  hurried  away; 
and  Stephen,  without  turning  round  to  see  Annie,  fol- 
lowed slowly  in  the  same  direction. 

Annie  walked  on  steadily,  with  the  hot  tears  burning  in 
her  eyes. 

This  was  what  Harry’s  desertion  meant  ; and  this  coarse 
woman,  whom  she  bad  just  been  assisting,  was  the  en- 
chantress who  held  his  heart  for  the  time. 

“ What  an  idiot  I was  to  imagine  for  a moment  that  he 
was  capable  of  lasting  affection,  and  for  his  wife!  I will 
never  think  about  him  again !” 

But  she  thought  about  him  all  the  way  to  the  theater, 
and  cried  herself  to  sleep  over  her  dislike  of  him  and  her 
contempt  for  him. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

The  nightly  duty  Annie  had  to  perform  at  the  theater 
was  all  that  saved  her  from  a serious  illness,  as  the  result 
of  the  acute  misery  she  suffered  for  some  time  after  the 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


201 


eventful  day  on  which  the  discovery  of  her  husband’s 
faithlessness  had  succeeded  to  Aubrey’s  reproaches.  How 
wise  she  now  felt  herself  to  have  been  in  mistrusting  the 
professions  of  affection  which  Harry  had  made  on  his  re- 
covery, in  the  hope  of  inducing  her  to  remain  at  the  Grange 
until  his  passing  fancy  for  her  society  was  quite  worn  out! 
If  she  had  yielded  to  his  entreaties,  she  would  have  lost 
the  chance  she  had  had  in  “ Nathalie,”  and  would  have  been 
now  entirely  at  the  mercy  of  her  careless  husband,  who 
had  taken  the  first  pretext  he  could  find  for  freeing  him- 
self from  the  restraint  of  her  society,  and,  under  the  pre- 
tense of  working  for  her,  returning  to  more  congenial 
companionship— perhaps  to  that  of  Susan  Green,  the 
blacksmith’s  daughter.  And  he  had  been  so  lost  to  all 
sense  of  decency  as  to  use  the  same  messenger  to  her  and 
to  Muriel  West. 

Annie  was  wiser  now  than  she  had  been  when  she  first 
came  to  London  alone,  after  the  few  miserable  months  of 
wedded  life  which  had  ended  in  such  a terrible  fiasco  at  the 
Grange.  Then  she  had  given  way  to  grieving  in  secret 
over  the  wreck  of  her  life;  but  now,  with  the  philosophy 
which  comes  of  a riper  knowledge  of  the  world,  she  hid 
away  her  regrets  as  well  as  she  could,  and  threw  herself 
into  the  life  around  her,  which  presented  many  attractions 
to  the  rising  young  actress. 

All  her  efforts  to  find  out  any  of  the  members  of  her  hus- 
band’s family  were  unavailing.  She  could  not  leave  town, 
or  she  would  have  returned  to  Beckham,  to  see  if  any  of 
them  were  haunting  the  old  place  yet.  She  heard  from 
William;  but  he  was  in  Ireland,  and  had  heard  nothing 
certain  about  the  movements  of  the  rest.  She  wanted  to 
know  how  George  had  borne  the  crash,  and  what  had 
become  of  Wilfred,  and  whether  the  shock  had  sobered 
him.  But  she  was  forced  to  wait  until  Stephen,  who  had 
given  her  no  address  that  she  could  write  to,  should  again 
call  and  fulfill  his  promise  of  keeping  her  informed  at  least 
concerning  her  husband’s  health. 

She  had  begun  to  wonder  whether  he  had  forgotten  all 
about  it,  or  whether  Harry  had  forbidden  him  to  hold  any 
further  communication  with  her,  when  Stephen  made  his 
appearance  in  her  sitting-room  one  afternoon,  looking  very 
haggard  and  unhappy. 

“ How  ill  you  are  looking,  Stephen!  You  have  not  been 
taking  proper  care  of  yourself.  Has  Lady  Braithwaite 
seen  you  lately,  or  Lilian?” 

“Lilian  wouldn’t  care  if  she  did,” he  answered,  sullenly. 

“ All  she  cares  for  is  herself  and  her  own  comfort ; and, 
when  that  is  secured,  all  the  rest  of  the  world  may  get  on 
as  it  can.” 


202 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


From  which  speech,  and  still  more  from  the  way  in 
which  it  was  delivered,  Annie  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
the  lame  man’s  infatuation  for  his  cousin  was  at  an  end. 
His  release  did  not  seem  to  have  made  him  any  the  hap- 
pier, however,  and  it  was  evident  from  his  appearance  that 
he  was  in  a deplorable  state  of  ill-health. 

“You  have  brought  me  news  of  Harry?”  she  asked, 
presently,  when  she  had  made  him  rest  on  the  sofa  and 
brought  him  a cup  of  tea. 

“Yes:  but  there  is  not  much  to  tell.  He  is  getting  on, 
but  he  has  not  written  this  time.” 

“Not  written!  Why  is  that?  He  might  surely  have 
sent  me  a few  lines  by  you,  if  he  did  not  choose  to  write 
by  the  post.  I have  been  expecting  to  hear  from  him  every 
day  for  at  least  a week.  Stephen,”  she  went  on  earnestly, 
drawing  her  chair  nearer  to  the  sofa,  and  speaking  with 
all  the  soft  persuasion  she  could  put  into  her  voice,  “ there 
must  be  some  reason  for  this — some  reason  that  you  know 
and  can  tell  me  if  you  choose.  Do  let  me  know  what  it 
means,  Stephen.  You  would  not  keep  anything  from  me 
that  I ought  to  know,  would  you?  I am  sure  you  could 
not  be  so  cruel.  He  is  ill,  and  you  don’t  like  to  tell  me 
so.” 

“No;  he  is  quite  well— upon  my  honor  he  is!  It  is  only 
that  he  is  not  getting  on  so  fast  as  he  wishes  to,  and  he  is 
too  despondent  just  now  to  write.” 

“ But  how  does  he  live?  I am  sure  he  has  no  money, 
and  he  is  used,  poor  fellow,  to  having  it  for  the  asking.” 

“No,  indeed— it  took  a good  deal  of  asking,  and  of  a 
very  pressing  kind,  to  get  money  out  of  George  lately. 
But  it  is  always  difficult  for  a man  with  no  capital  to  get 
on.” 

“ Look  here,  Stephen.  I have  some  money  that  I have 
saved ; you  must  take  it.  If  Harry  won’t  have  it  when  he 
hears  it  is  mine,  you  must  tell  him  it  is  his  share  of  the 
proceeds  of  the  sale  at  the  Grange.  Poor  old  Grange ! I 
read  about  the  sale  the  other  day.  I can’t  think  what  has 
changed  Harry  so  much ; he  used  not  to  be  overproud  in 
money  matters,  and  now  he  is  as  tiresome  as  possible  the 
other  way.  Tell  him  any  story  you  like,  so  that  you  make 
him  take  it.” 

“ I sha’n’t  be  able  to,  Annie.  He  is  a great  deal  sharper 
than  you  think,  and  he  would  guess  who  sent  it  directly.” 

“ You  must  say  nothing  about  it  for  a few  days,  as  he 
will  know  you  have  just  seen  me.  But  in  about  a week 
you  can  spring  it  upon  him  suddenly,  and  he  will  be  off 
his  guard  by  that  time  and  believe  you.  Now  don’t  raise 
any  more  objections,  for  you  must  take  it;  and  I can  spare 
it  quite  well  I know  you  are  a man  of  property,”  said 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


m 


she,  laughing— for  Stephen  had  a little  money  of  his  own — 
“ and  would  be  offended  if  I offered  to  lend  you  money; 
but,  if  you  ever  should  want  ‘ a little  check,’  you  must  re- 
member that  I,  too,  am  a person  of  property  now— at  least, 
as  long  as  my  engagement  lasts;  and  I have  just  signed 
for  another  two  years  at  a higher  salary.” 

And,  before  he  went  away,  she  put  into  his  hands  a lit- 
tle packet  containing  ten  pounds,  which  he  took  reluc- 
tantly, bound  by  a solemn  promise  not  to  let  Harry  know 
whom  it  came  from.  She  sent  a little  note  to  her  husband, 
too,  begging  him  to  write  to  her,  telling  him  all  about  the 
renewal  of  her  engagement,  cheering  him  by  all  the  en- 
couraging words  she  could  think  of,  entreating  him  not  to 
despond  if  he  were  not  immediately  successful  in  the  work, 
whatever  it  might  be,  which  he  had  taken  up,  and  saying 
all  that  a wife  could  think  of  to  a better  husband  than 
Harry.  She  refrained  from  sneers  or  sarcasm,  for  she 
had  made  up  her  mind  to  take  her  husband  as  he  was,  to 
do  her  duty  as  his  wife  as  well  as  he  would  let  her;  and 
she  tried  to  throw  all  her  thoughts  and  all  her  hopes  into 
her  own  career,  so  that  she  might  escape  from  the  re- 
grets which  would  arise  in  moments  of  depression  at  the 
thought  that  no  home  happiness  would  ever  be  possible 
for  her. 

That  week,  during  which  Harry  had  devoted  himself  to 
proving  that  happiness  was  possible  for  them  together, 
had  left  deeper  results  than  he  guessed ; he  had  paid  her 
back  in  her  own  coin  for  tantalizing  him  during  his  con- 
valescence by  a kindness  which  was  not  meant  to  be  more 
than  a temporary  effort.  It  was  not  for  some  time  that 
the  thought  flashed  into  her  mind  that  this  had  been  a 
deliberately  planned  revenge  on  his  part  for  her  obstinate 
refusal  to  stay  at  the  Grange  with  him.  Such  a refinement 
of  vengeance  did  not  seem  in  keeping  with  Harry’s  char- 
acter; yet  it  seemed  scarcely  more  improbable  than  the 
wild  inconsistency  of  loving  her  devotedly  one  week  and 
being  perfectly  happy  without  her  the  next. 

She  tried  to  solve  the  problem  by  acute  questionings  of 
Stephen  when  she  saw  him  next;  but  he  was  more  cautious 
and  reticent  than  ever,  seemed  uneasy  under  the  fire  of 
her  inquiries,  and  she  soon  saw  that  a continuance  of 
them  would  only  result  in  his  having  recourse  to  false- 
hood in  reply.  So  she  had  to  content  herself  with  learn- 
ing that  Harry  had  taken  the  money ; but  she  understood 
from  what  his  cousin  said  that  he  was  in  want  of  more, 
and  with  ready  generosity  she  sent  him  all  the  rest  of  her 
savings. 

“Are  you  sure  you  can  spare  all  this?”  asked  Stephen, 


mi  A Vagrant  wive. 

uneasily,  as  he  stood  hesitatingly  with  the  money  in  his 
hand. 

‘ 4 Quite,  quite  sure.  You  need  not  look  so  downcast  about 
taking  it,”  said  she,  laughing.  “ You  are  to  tell  Harry  I 
have  plenty,  and  whenever  he  wants  more  you  have  only 
to  come  to  me.” 

“ Tell  Harry?” 

u Oh,  doesn’t  he  know  it  is  from  me?” 

“ No,  no;  I did  not  dare  to  tell  him!  You  told  me  not 
to.  He  would  not  have  taken  it.” 

“ You  are  quite  right.  I had  forgotten.  Well,  say  that 
George  has  some  more  for  him,  and  will  give  it  to  him  when 
he  wants  it.  Or  stay ! couldn’t  you  say  it  comes  from  Lady 
Braith waite?”  asked  Annie,  brightly,  more  pleased  than 
she  knew  to  find  that  her  husband  was  still  too  proud  to 
accept  money  from  her  hands. 

“He  would  not  believe  that.  My  aunt  has  only  just 
enough  to  live  upon.” 

“ Lilian?” 

“ Lilian  is  abroad.  I don’t  know  whether  she  has  heard 
anything  about  it  yet.” 

“ Well,  say  what  you  like,  as  long  as  you  make  him  take 
it.” 

“ And  you  are  quite  sure  the  want  of  it  will  not  incon- 
venience you?” 

“You  are  as  sensitive  for  Harry  as  he  is  for  himself. 
Look  at  the  luxury  lam  surrounded  by, ’’and  Annie  pointed 
gay ly  to  the  bouquets  and  fruit  on  the  table.  “Doesn’t 
all  this  speak  for  itself?  The  money,  you  understand, 
comes  from  somebody  else ; but  you  may  take  him  this 
from  me;”  and  with  nervous,  trembling  fingers  she  pulled 
out  from  their  companions  a spray  of  jasmine  and  a crim- 
son azalea,  fastened  them  together,  and  put  them  into  his 
hands  as  he  left  the  room. 

“I  am  afraid  that  poor  fellow  is  going  to  die,”  she 
thought,  as  she  listened  to  his  slow  footsteps  and  the  thud 
of  his  crutch  upon  the  stairs;  “I  never  saw  him  look  so 
ill  as  he  did  to-day.  I wonder  where  he  lives?  He  cannot 
be  in  want — I know  he  has  money  enough  to  keep  him, 
and  Harry  even,  with  the  money  I send  him,  would  have 
enough  for  them  both.  Poor  fellow !” 

She  and  Stephen  had  never  been  very  good  friends— in- 
deed at  the  Grange  he  had  disliked  her,  and  she  had  never 
felt  for  him  any  warmer  sentiment  than  pity,  mingled 
with  contempt  for  the  slavish  nature  of  his  devotion  to 
Lilian.  His  unselfish  worship  of  the  cold,  proud  girl  had 
its  nobler  side,  she  knew ; but  she  could  not  forgive  the 
meanness  of  the  actions  to  which  he  would  stoop  for  his 
cousin’s  sake.  But,  now  that  Lilian  had  cast  him  aside 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


206 


like  an  old  glove,  and  he  appeared  before  Annie  broken  in 
health  and  forlorn,  the  tears  came  into  her  eyes  as  she 
thought  of  his  wasted  life,  and  she  would  have  done  any- 
thing in  the  world  to  smooth  his  rough  lot  for  him  by  her 
sympathy  or  her  care.  But  he  shrunk  from  both,  and  left 
her  each  time  dejected  but  stubborn,  with  the  shy  reserve 
which  characterized  his  attitude  toward  most  people  even 
more  marked  than  usual  in  his  conversations  with  her. 

She  was  feeling  rather  heart-sick  at  her  inability  to  do 
anything  for  the  members  of  her  husband’s  family,  from 
most  of  whom  she  had  received  great  kindness,  when  one 
day  she  saw  Sir  George  getting  out  of  a hansom  in  Picca- 
dilly. He  was  looking  careworn  and  harassed,  Annie 
thought;  but  he  seemed  glad  to  see  her;  and,  when  she 
begged  him  to  come  to  luncheon  the  next  day  he  said  he 
should  be  delighted,  but  she  must  be  prepared  to  find  him 
more  of  a bore  than  ever. 

“Well,  if  you  bore  me,  I shall  take  the  privilege 
of  an  old  acquaintance  and  go  to  sleep,”  said  she,  laugh- 
ing. 

The  next  day  he  appeared  punctually  in  her  sitting- 
room,  and  she  was  even  more  struck  than  she  had  been 
on  the  previous  day  by  the  deep  lines  in  his  handsome 
face  and  the  cloud  which  seemed  to  hang  over  him. 
She  exerted  herself  as  she  had  never  done  before  to  be 
lively  and  amusing;  she  had  prepared  the  daintiest  of 
luncheons,  and  before  it  was  over  she  had  the  satisfac- 
tion of  hearing  him  laugh  like  a man  without  a care. 
Not  a particle  of  this  delicate  welcome  was  lost  upon  the 
keen  man  of  the  world,  and,  when  luncheon  was  over,  he 
said: 

“ That  is  the  first  meal  I have  laughed  over  for  more 
than  two  months— since  you  left  the  Grange,  in  fact.” 

“ Is  it?”  said  Annie,  carelessly,  as  she  refilled  his  glass. 

“Yes;  and  I suppose  you  know  that  as  well  as  I do. 
You  have  the  ars  celare  artern , like  the  accomplished 
actress  you  are  off  as  well  as  on  the  stage;  but  I know 
you  inveigled  me  here  to-day  with  the  base  intention 
that  your  wit  and  your  wine  should  get  into  my  head, 
and  make  me  forget  for  a little  while  my  cares  and  my 
difficulties.” 

“And,  if  wit  and  wine  never  fulfilled  a worse  mission 
than  that,  they  would  not  be  so  ill  spoken  of,”  said  Annie, 
gently. 

“ Well  said!  Why  did  you  leave  us,  Annie?  You  were 
the  good  genius  of  the  Grange,  and  1 am  almost  ready  to 
think  that,  if  you  had  never  left  it,  we  should  all  be  there 
still.” 


206 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


“That’s  right.  Put  all  the  blame  upon  a defenseless 
woman.” 

“ I am  glad  you  were  not  there  at  the  end ; it  was  a mis- 
erable time.” 

He  was  so  deeply  serious  that  Annie  grew  serious  too. 

“Do  you  think  I would  have  gone  if  I had  known 
what  was  coming?  Oh,  George,  you  cannot  think  so  ill 
of  me !” 

“ It  is  better  for  you  that  you  did  go  then ; you  could  not 
have  prevented  the  crash.  I had  known  it  must  come  from 
the  time  my  father  died.  It  has  been  nothing  but  wave 
after  wave  of  difficulty,  and  getting  through  or  over  them 
somehow  ever  since.  I suppose  it  would  have  been  better 
to  give  up  long  ago ; but  we  were  so  hedged  in  on  every 
side  that~the  ruin  was  bound  to  be  complete  when  it  did 
come,  and  you  are  just  the  sort  of  woman  to  understand 
the  feeling  which  forces  one,  with  or  against  one’s  will,  to 
fight  it  out  to  the  end,  and  stave  off  the  fall  into  a broken- 
down  swell  as  long  as  possible.” 

“George,  George,  how  can  you  use  such  an  absurd 
term?  You,  with  your  pluck,  your  patience!” 

“I’ve  used  them  all  up,  Annie,  in  the  one  tussle.” 

“ Then  you  must  let  them  grow  again,  and  go  in  for  an- 
other tussle.  You  are  young,  and  have  courage  and  en- 
ergy. If  I were  you,  I would  never  rest  until  I had  bought 
back  the  Grange.” 

“ I don  t believe  you  would!”  said  George,  admiringly, 
as  he  watched  the  proud  flashing  of  her  eyes  and  the  vary- 
ing expression  of  her  face.  “ But  I am  not  like  that.  I 
could  fight  on  doggedly  for  something  which  was  being 
dragged  away  from  me;  but  I haven’t  it  in  me  to  begin  a 
battle  on  my  own  account.” 

“Then  what  do  you  mean  to  do?” 

“I  shall  get  some  appointment  where  I can  grow  gray 
with  respectability;  my  people -can  manage  that,  and  they 
will.  It  is  a scandal  for  a baronet  to  starve,  you  know. 
Why,  you  silly  child,  you  are  crying!  Thank  Heaven, 
Annie!  I didn’t  think  you  were  so  fond  of  me.” 

“I’m  not  fond  of  you— I’m  disgusted  with  you!”  said 
Annie,  fiercely,  stiffening  herself  rigidly  as  he  leaned  to- 
ward her.  “ Why,  do  you  know  that  even  Harry  shows 
more  spirit  than  that?” 

“ What  makes  you  say  4 even  Harry?’  ” asked  Sir  George, 
quietly.  “ I could  have  told  you  long  ago  that  Harry  had 
pluck  and  spirit  enough  for  six,  in  spite  of  his  impossible 
manners  and  boorish  conversation.  If  anybody  buys  back 
the  Grange,  it  will  be  he.” 

Annie  listened  with  her  cheeks  tingling. 


A VAGRANT  WIFE.  207 

“ When  did  you  first  begin  to  think  all  that  of  him?”  she 
asked,  in  a low  voice. 

“I  knew,  when  we  were  lads  together,  that  there  was 
something  in  him;  but  I own  I lost  sight  of  the  fact  while 
he  led  his  loose,  lazy  life  at  the  Grange  after  you  had  left 
him.  But,  when  you  left  the  Grange  this  last  time — more 
than  two  months  ago— he  let  me  see  his  best  side  again  one 
night  when  we  were  talking  about  you.” 

“ About  me?”  whispered  Annie,  breathlessly. 

“Yes;  he  told  me  he  loved  you  with  all  his  soul,  and 
he  meant  to  win  you  back  to  him  if  he  had  to  wait  ten 
years.  And  I believe  him.” 

“ George,”  said  she,  in  a low,  uncertain  voice,  raising 
her  eyes  to  his,  after  a pause,  “he  has  done  it  already. 
But— but  he  won’t  give  me  a chance  of  telling  him  so.  He 
won’t  let  me  know  where  he  is,  and— and  indeed  he  doesn’t 
care  for  me  as  much  as  you  think;  for,  if  he  did,  he 
couldn’t  make  appointments  with— with  other  women,” 
sobbed  she,  with  her  head  in  her  hands. 

“ Are  you  sure  that  he  does,  Annie?”  asked  her  brother- 
in-law,  earnestly. 

“Quite  sure.  I— I overheard  it,”  quavered  she. 

“Don’t  be  so  certain  about  it  yet,  my  poor  child!  If 
ever  a man  was  in  solemn  earnest,  Harry  was  when  he 
spoke  to  me  about  you,  and  he  is  far  too  pig-headed  to 
change  like  that  in  a few  weeks.  He  swore  to  me  that 
you  were  the  only  woman  in  the  world  for  him,  and  he 
should  never  look  at  another  again.  Trust  me,  don’t  make 
up  your  mind  that  he  is  faithless  to  you  yet. ' His  keeping 
away  from  you  means  something  more  than  that,  or  I’m 
much  mistaken  in  him.” 

Annie  allowed  herself  to  be  somewhat  comforted  by 
these  words,  and  she  promised  George,  who  of  course  man- 
aged to  allow  himself  as  many — if  not  more— of  the  small 
comforts  of  life  as  he  had  done  before  his  ruin,  to  accom- 
pany him  to  Ascot  in  ten  days’  time,  to  play  good  angel  to 
him  and  raise  his  spirits. 

But  in  the  meantime  she  had  another  visit  from  Stephen, 
who  looked  more  haggard  than  ever;  and,  as  he  hinted  to 
her  that  Harry  was  again  in  want  of  money,  and  as  some 
dressmaking  expenses  had  used  up  all  she  had  in  hand 
until  she  received  her  next  weekly  salary,  she  fastened  up 
a bracelet,  her  best  pair  of  ear-rings,  and  a diamond 
brooch  which  George  had  given  her  into  a little  packet, 
which  she  put  into  Stephen’s  hands,  saying: 

“ I have  been  spending  a lot  of  money  upon  myself  this 
week,  so  I can’t  spare  any  just  now.  There  are  a few 
trinkets  here  which  I never  wear,  and  I can  spare  them 


208 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


better  than  money.  Would  you  mind  selling  them  for  me 
and  giving  the  money  to  Harry?” 

‘ V Your  jewelry ! No,  I can’t  take  that  I”  said  Stephen, 
thrusting  the  packet  hastily  back  and  opening  the  door. 

u Nonsense!  You  must— I insist!  There  is  not  a thing 
I care  for  among  them,”  said  Annie;  and  with  gentle  force 
she  made  him  take  them,  pitying  the  poor  fellow  as  she 
did  so  for  his  reluctance  to  let  her  part  with  her  trinkets. 

A few  days  after  that  was  Cup-day  at  Ascot ; and  George, 
true  to  his  promise,  came  in  a hansom  to  take  her  to  the 
station;  for  they  were  going  down  by  train.  It  was  a 
most  beautiful  day,  Annie  enjoyed  herself  with  an  um 
clouded  delight  which  infected  her  companion,  and  it  took 
all  his  loyalty  and  a little  of  her  tact  to  prevent  his  making 
love  to  her  again.  She  was  too  wise  to  suggest  economy 
to  him  when  he  took  her,  as  a matter  of  course,  on  to  the 
grand  stand  and  spent  his  money  with  rather  more  reck- 
lessness than  in  the  old  days,  when  he  had  a large  estab- 
lishment to  keep  up,  and  clamorous  young  brothers’  allow- 
ances to  pay.  Men  in  difficulties  always  had  plenty  of 
ready  money,  she  knew,  and  were  much  lighter* hearted 
companions  than  men  who  went  on  ploddingly  paying 
their  debt3  as  they  arose. 

George  left  her  for  a few  minutes,  sitting,  her  face  all 
smiles  and  sunshine,  with  his  race-glass  in  her  hand,  ex- 
amining the  carriages  which  lined  the  course.  He  had 
gone  into  the  ring,  and  had  promised  to  be  back  in  time 
for  the  next  race.  He  returned  to  find  her  leaning  back, 
white  and  shivering,  with  the  luster  gone  from  her  eyes, 
and  her  arms  hanging  limply  at  her  sides.  A lady — a 
stranger — was  supporting  her  head. 

“Good  heavens,  Annie,  are  you  ill?”  he  cried,  in  great 
agitation. 

“She  is  going  to  faint,  I am  afraid,”  said  the  lady  with 
her. 

“No,  no,  I shall  not  faint;  I am  well  already !”  said 
Annie,  rousing  herself  by  a great  effort.  “Thank  you 
very  much  for  your  kindness.  I am  afraid  I frightened 
you.  George,  take  me  to  have  a glass  of  wine,  please.” 

He  led  her,  supported  by  his  arm,  to  the  refreshment- 
room,  and  in  a few  minutes  she  had  controlled  herself 
sufficiently  to  be  able  to  tell  him  the  reason  of  her  sudden 
illness. 

“ I saw  the  woman  I told  you  about,  to  whom  Harry 
sends  messages,  on  a drag  on  the  course ; and  I saw  Harry 
ride  up  and  speak  to  her.” 

George  muttered  a savage  imprecation  between  his  teeth. 
Annie  continued : 

“I  want  you  to  take  me  down  there  among  the  carriages, 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


209 


to  be  quite  sure  it  is  she.  Do  take  me,  George ! If  you 
won’t,  I must  go  alone.” 

“ I will  take  you,  if  you  wish  it;  but.  my  child,  you  had 
better  not  go.  If  you  were  to  see  them  together  again,  it 
would  break  your  heart.” 

“Oh,  no;  my  heart  is  not  so  tender  as  that,  George!” 
said  she,  wearily.  “Let  us  make  haste.” 

She  was  afraid  of  her  strength  giving  way  again  if  there 
was  any  more  delay.  So  he  took  her  down,  across  the 
course,  and  in  and  out  among  the  carriages  until  they  came 
in  sight  of  the  one  she  was  in  search  of.  Harry  was 
no  longer  beside  the  drag;  but  there  sat  Muriel,  her  com- 
plexion carefully  made  up,  and  dressed  with  more  extrava- 
gance than  good  taste ; and  in  her  ears  were  the  ear-rings 
and  at  her  throat  was  the  brooch  which  Annie  had  sent  to 
Harry  to  help  him  out  of  his  difficulties  a week  before. 

She  turned  away  quickly,  and  whispered  to  George, 
clinging  to  him  like  a child,  and  with  a little  tremor  in  her 
voice : 

“ Now  let  us  go  away — let  us  go  away— as  fast — as  we 
can— straight  back  home!” 

She  bore  up  bravely  all  the  way  to  the  station  and  during 
the  journey  in  the  train ; but  when  they  were  driving  along 
together  in  a hansom,  she  said  suddenly : 

“ Talk  about  the  races,  George,  please.” 

But  he  could  not,  for  there  was  a lump  in  his  throat,  and 
all  he  could  say,  as  a lift  to  the  conversation,  was: 

“Curse  him!” 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

“Don’t  go  to  the  theater  to-night,  Annie!  Send  a note 
to  say  you  are  not  well,”  suggested  George,  when  they 
reached  the  house  where  his  sister-in-law  was  living.  4 4 You 
are  not  fit  to  act  to-night;  they  must  get  somebody  else,” 
he  added,  with  the  charming  simplicity  of  the  “outsider” 
in  theatrical  matters,  who  does  not  know  how  loath  the 
rising  actress  is  to  give  her  44  understudy  ” a chance  of 
proving  that  she  herself  is  not  indispensable  to  the  success 
of  the  piece. 

“I  must  go,  George;  and  it  will  be  the  best  thing 
for  me,”  said  she,  with  a grateful  look  at  his  anxious 
face.  44 Come  and  see  me  to-morrow;  I want  to  talk  to 
you.” 

He  left  her  unwillingly,  and  that  night  he  took  a stall 
at  the  theater  where  she  was  acting  that  he  might  be  at 
hand  in  case  she  broke  down.  But  there  was  no  need  of 
such  a fear  for  the  trained  actress;  her  performance  that 
night  was,  to  a close  observer,  somewhat  fitful  and  un- 


210 


A VAGRANT  WIFfi. 


equal ; but  she  gave  no  other  sign  of  the  shock  she  had 
sustained  that  day — in  fact,  the  excitement  caused  by 
it  prevented  her  physical  weariness  from  being  so  appar- 
ent. 

The  next  morning*  however,  when  George  called,  he 
found  her  sad  and  subdued,  in  spite  of  the  efforts  she  made 
to  seem  as  cheerful  as  usual.  When  she  referred  to  the 
previous  day,  she  did  so  quite  calmly ; but  his  self-com- 
mand about  the  matter  was  not  so  great  as  hers,  and  he 
broke  out  in  a few  minutes  and  swore  that  he  would  find 
Harry  out  and  upbraid  him  for  his  infamous  conduct  to 
the  most  perfect  woman  in  the  world. 

“ I am  not  that,  George;  and  Harry  knows  it — that  is 
the  worst  of  it ! If  you  were  to  tell  him  you  and  I had 
both  recognized  my  jewels  on  another  woman,  he  would 
tell  you  that  it  was  only  to  be  even  with  me  for  having 
preferred  to  his  the  society  of  another  man.” 

George  looked  at  her  in  astonishment,  for  she  spoke  with 
bitter  self-reproach  and  kept  her  eyes  away  from  his. 

“My  dear  Annie,  you  are  reproaching  yourself  very  un- 
necessarily. When  Harry  himself  behaved  to  you  like  a 
coal-heaver,  even  he  could  scarcely  be  surprised  that  you 
preferred  any  society  to  his.” 

“ Not  any  society— I did  not  mean  that.” 

“ No,  but  that  of  men  of  his  own  rank,  but  not  quite  of 
his  manners,”  said  George,  drawing  his  chair  a little  nearer 
to  hers. 

“ I did  not  mean  that  either.  As  long  as  I preferred  any 
society  to  his,  it  didn’t  matter.  So  I thought  myself  safe ; 
it  seemed  quite  natural  to  dislike  and  fear  Harry  when  he 
neglected  me  and  snubbed  me,  and  bullied  and  at  last  struck 
me.  I felt  that,  if  I stayed  with  him  any  longer,  his  very 
presence  would  poison  me,”  said  she  with  rising  excite- 
ment. 

“ No  wonder!  You  were  quite  right  to  leave  him,  and, 
if  you  had  been  wise,  you  would  never  have  come  back  to 
the  brute.” 

“Do  you  think  so?  Now  I think  I was  quite  wrong. 
Even  if  I could  not  have  loved  him,  it  would  have  been 
safer  to  stay  with  him,  safer  for  him  and  for  me.” 

“ Safer  for  you!” 

“Yes,  yes.  I thought  I was  so  strong,  so  hard,  that  I 
could  do  without  affection  altogether—  especially  as  affec- 
tion could,  since  my  foolish  marriage,  only  mean  Harry’s. 
And  I was  foolish  and  cared  for  him  too  little  to  ask  my- 
self whether  he  could  do  without  it  as  well.” 

“He  had  shown  that  he  didn’t  deserve  yours,  at  all 
events.  If  you  had  stayed  at  the  Grange,  I think  you  might 
Jiave  been  happy,  Annie;  but  it  would  have  been  thanks 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


m 


to  your  husband’s  family,  and  not  to  him.  You  see,  Lil- 
ian was  just  going  to  be  married,  and.  my  mother  would 
soon  have  warmed  to  you  when  her  other  daughter  was 
gone;  and,  if  Harry  had  not  changed  his  tone,  I would 
have  packed  him  off  somewhere,  and  then  you  would  have 
been  surrounded  by  nothing  but  worshipers.  And,  if  you 
had  liked  the  Grange  better  in  those  circumstances,  my 
dear  child,  I don’t  think  any  one  could  have  blamed 
you.” 

“I  think  they  would,  though.  You  see,  my  fault  all 
through  my  married  life  has  been  that  I looked  upon  my 
husband  as  a contemptible  tyrant  to  be  given  way  to  or 
avoided  as  the  case  might  be,  never  as  a reasonable  being 
whose  opinions  and  feelings  were  to  be  considered  for  their 
own  sake.” 

“But  you  see  he  has  proved  that  they  are  not  worth 
considering.  I own  to  you  that,  when  he  was  getting  bet- 
ter, and  he  seemed  never  happy  when  you  were  out  of  his 
sight,  and  you  went  on  laughing  and  t Iking  with  any  of 
us  rather  than  with  him,  and  treated  him  like  a cross, 
spoiled  child,  to  be  given  w#y  to  and  coaxed,  while  he 
seemed  always  longing  and  trying  to  be  something  more 
to  you— it  did  seem  to  me  sometimes  that  it  was  rather 
rough  on  Harry ; but  now  I see  you  were  quite  right,  and 
it  was  a good  thing  you  did  not  get  fond  of  such  a weather- 
cock. And  then,  when  he  rushed  up  to  town  red-hot  to 
see  you,  and  found  you  all  dull  and  solitary ” 

“ But  he  didn’t  find  me  dull  and  solitary — that  is  what 
made  him  angry,”  said  Annie,  blushing.  “ He  found  an 
actor  here  whom — whom  I had  grown  fond  of  when  I was 
on  tour.  It  was  partly  that  I might  forget  him  that  I 
went  to  nurse  Harry  when  he  was  ill,”  she  said,  hurriedly. 
“ He  used  to  come  and  see  me  here  after  I left  the  Grange 
this  last  time.  I told  him  I could  never  marry  him ; but 
— but  I did  not  tell  him  I was  married  already ; and  some- 
how Harry  guessed  that,  and  made  me  half-con fess  it ; and 
then,  instead  of  bullying  me  and  reproaching  me  now  that 
he  really  had  something  to  complain  of,  he  took  me  to 
the  Bingham  Hotel,  and  was  so  sweet  and  kind  to  me  that 
I— I really  think,  if  he  had  stayed  with  me,  I should  have 
grown  very  fond  of  him.  So  you  see,  George,  I am  not  a 
martyr,  and,  if  he  has  treated  me  badly,  it  is  no  more 
than  I deserve.” 

She  spoke  in  a very  sad,  quiet  voice,  with  all  the  bright 
ring  gone  out  of  it ; and  George  thought,  as  he  watched 
her  eyes  fixed  steadily  before  her,  and  her  lips  quivering  a 
little  in  spite  of  herself,  that,  if  her  truant  husband  could 
see  her  now,  he  would  realize  how  foolish  he  had  been  to 
expect  that  he  could  neglect  such  a pretty  little  wife  with- 


&12  A VAGRANT  WINS. 

out  some  more  discriminating  person’s  trying  to  console 
her. 

“ Well,  now  you  must  forget  all  about  a brute  who  could 
take  away  your  jewelry  to  give  to  another  woman.  And 
of  course,  it  would  not  be  right  to  see  any  more  of  the 
other  man — the  actor.  But  I will  come  and  see  you  as 
often  as  you  like,  and  take  you  out,  and  have  tea  with  you 
and  luncheon  with  you  whenever  you  feel  dull;  I will 
come  and  live  nearer  this  way — that  will  be  the  best  plan 
—and  then  you  can  send  for  me  whenever  you  want  me,” 
said  George,  benevolently. 

“ Thank  you,  George;  I am  very  glad  you  are  in  town,” 
said  she,  smiling;  “ but  I won’t  trespass  upon  your  kind- 
ness so  much  as  that.  I am  afraid  Harry  isn’t  worth  the 
determination ; but  I am  not  going  to  give  him  a loophole 
for  complaint  of  me  again.” 

“But  he  couldn’t  be  jealous  of  me,”  said  George,  with 
eager  surprise.  “You  can’t  bury  yourself  alive  for  the 
sake  of  a man  who  is  deceiving  you,  who  writes  to  say  he 
is  getting  on  badly  ” — Annie  had  told  him  that,  but  with- 
out saying  anything  about  the  money  she  had  sent — “ and 
whom  you  see  a week  after  on  horseback  on  a race-course 
enjoying  himself  as  if  he  were  rich.  It  isn’t  as  if  I were 
one  of  your  handsome  actors ” 

“ You  are  too  modest,  George.  You  are  handsomer  than 
any  actor  I know.” 

“Handsomer  than ” 

“ Oh,  yes;  he  is  quite  ugly ! That  was  the  hardest  blow 
of  all  to  Harry,”  said  she,  laughing.  “But,  handsome 
or  ugly,  Harry  shall  never  have  the  least  reason  to  be 
jealous  again.” 

“Are  you  so  sure  of  yourself?”  asked  George  softly. 
“You  know,”  he  continued  diffidently,  “you  thought  you 
were  quite  cold  and  safe  before.” 

“ I have  a safeguard  now,”  said  she  in  a low  voice.  “ In 
spite  of  all  that  he  has  done— and  you  have  not  heard  the 
worst — I love  Harry;  his  forbearance  to  me  when  I was 
in  the  wrong  seems  to  have  subdued  me;  and  nothing  in 
this  world  now,  not  even  brilliant  success  on  the  stage, 
has  so  much  charm  for  me  as  the  hope  of  some  day  win- 
ning him  back  to  me.” 

“ I hope  you  will,  Annie — I hope  you  will.  You  deserve 
the  greatest  happiness  the  world  can  give,  and  Harry 
would  be  a fool  not  to  snatch  at  what  many  a man  will 
envy  him  for.” 

Annie  did  not  want  him  to  grow  sentimental,  and  she 
soon  turned  the  conversation  to  other  matters. 

She  had  a firm  friend  now  in  her  eldest  brother-in-law, 
whom  she  knew  how  to  manage,  and  to  whom,  in  this  time 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


oi  his  ruin  and  consequent  troubles,  she  did  infinite  service 
by  her  sympathy  and  encouragement.  She  could  not,  even 
if  she  had  wished  to  do  so,  prevent  his  coming  to  see  her 
constantly;  for,  though  a man  accustomed  to  depend  upon 
himself  in  a struggle,  he  could  find  no  consolation,  now 
that  the  struggle  was  over,  so  great  as  his  sister-in-law’s 
sweet  voice  and  kind  eyes. 

She  had  dropped  much  out  of  her  circle  of  acquaintances 
since  the  blow  she  had  received  at  Ascot;  life  had  lost 
some  of  its  zest  for  her,  and  she  had  grown  restlessly  anx- 
ious for  news  of  her  husband.  She  received  letters  from 
him  now  and  then,  short,  affectionate,  ill-spelled,  but 
vague,  requesting  her  to  send  her  answers  under  cover  to 
Stephen  at  a club  he  mentioned.  She  wrote  answers  in 
which,  as  he  never  mentioned  his  prospects  or  hers,  or  the 
money  she  had  sent  him,  she  never  referred  to  them  either. 
She  also  wrote  to  Stephen  himself  at  the  address  given,  beg- 
ging him  to  come  and  see  her ; but  to  this  she  got  no  answer, 
until  one  afternoon  she  met  him  in  the  Strand  and  insisted 
on  his  returning  home  with  her.  He  was  looking  as  hag- 
gard as  ever,  and  seemed  more  uneasy  in  her  presence  than 
he  had  been  before. 

“Why  haven’t  you  been  here  for  so  long,  Stephen,  when 
you  knew  how  anxious  I should  be?  And  what  have  you 
to  say  to  me  from  Harry  about  what  I sent  him?  I should 
have  thought  I deserved  a message  of  acknowledgment ; 
but  he  does  not  even  mention,  in  his  very  short  notes,  the 
help  I have  so  often  given  him.” 

“ He  is  ashamed  to  do  so,  Annie.  But  he  is  grateful  to 
you  all  the  same.  He  often  talks  to  me  about  the  sacrifices 
you  must  have  made,  and  he  thinks  of  them  a great  deal, 
I am  sure.” 

4 ‘ But  that  is  not  enough.  He  ought  to  speak  to  me  about 
them,  and,  if  he  is  too  shy  to  do  so  by  letter,  I must  hear 
him  express  his  gratitude  in  person.  Where  is  he  living, 
Stephen?  I must  have  his  address,”  said  Annie,  with  de- 
termination. 

“ I can’t  give  it  you — I can’t  indeed.  I was  afraid  you 
wrould  want  to  know  it,  and  he  has  forbidden  me  to  give  it 
you ; that  is  why  I have  kept  away  from  you.  ” 

“And  what  reason  have  you  both  to  give  for  this  very 
singular  refusal  ? What  is  Harry  doing  that  he  is  ashamed 
to  be  seen  by  his  own  wife?” 

“ He  is  not  ashamed  exactly ; but  he  knows  how  proud 
you  are,  and  he  thinks,  if  you  knew  how  he  earns  his  liv- 
ing, you  would  look  down  upon  him.” 

“Is  it  something  so  very  disgraceful  then?” 

* ■ u Perhaps  you  might  call  it  so ; at  least  he  thinks  so.” 

“Tell  me  what  it  is.  Stephen,  do  tell  me.” 


*14 


a Vagrant  wif& 


u I can’t.  I swore  to  him  I wouldn’t.” 

“Then  am  I never  to  know?  Doesn’t  he  want  ever  to 
see  me  again?” 

“ Some  day,  bub  not  yet.” 

“ But  what  uiffereuce  can  waiting  make?  If  it  is  dis- 
graceful now,  it  will  always  be  disgraceful.  But,  if  it  is 
only  that  he  has  taken  to  earning  his  living  by  some  em- 
ployment not  generally  filled  by  gentlemen,  why,  I shall 
only  respect  him  the  more  for  sacrificing  his  pride ! That 
is  true  indeed.” 

But  all  her  arguments  and  entreaties  did  not  move 
Stephen,  who  seemed  very  much  agitated  by  her  supplica- 
tions, but  doggedly  refused  to  yield  to  them. 

That  night  she  wrote  a letter  to  her  husband,  sending  it 
as  usual  to  Stephen  to  be  forwarded. 

“ My  dear  Harry, — After  waiting  impatiently  for  more 
tidings  of  you  than  your  scanty  notes  convey,  I caught 
Stephen  to-day,  much  against  his  will,  and  hoped  to  get 
him  to  give  me  your  address,  that  I might  come  and  see 
you.  But  nothing  would  induce  him  to  tell  me  where  you 
are  or  what  you  are  doing,  and  he  says  you  have  strictly 
forbidden  him  to  do  so.  I now  appeal  to  you  to  put  an  end 
to  the  anxiety  I am  in  about  you,  and  to  let  me  come  and 
see  you,  if  you  will  not  come  and  see  me.  Stephen  seems 
to  think  that  you  are  afraid  that  the  way  you  are  earning 
your  living  will  shock  me;  but  indeed  I think,  if  I were  to 
see  you  with  a black  face  after  sweeping  a chimney,  or 
driving  a donkey-cart  full  of  vegetables,  you  would  not 
complain  of  the  coldness  of  the  welcome  I would  give  you. 
Please,  please  write  to  me,  not  one  of  those  little  hurried 
scrawls  saying  nothing,  but  a letter  just  to  tell  me  when  I 
am  to  see  you  again.  I don’t  think  you  would  be  jealous 
of  anybody  I see  now,  except  perhaps  of  dear  old  George, 
whom  I see  nearly  every  day,  and  whom  I should  like 
much  better  if  only  he  would  do  something,  like  you.  I 
know  you  hate  writing;  but  you  would  find  time  for  this 
if  only  you  knew  how  anxious  I am  to  be  sure  you  are 
well.  Your  loving  wife, 

“ Annie.” 

She  posted  this  letter  under  cover  to  Stephen ; but  she 
waited  three  weeks  without  getting  any  answer. 

At  the  end  of  that  time  she  was  surprised  by  a visit 
from  Lilian,  who  had  just  returned  with  her  husband  from 
abroad,  having  been  traveling  some  months  for  her  health, 
which  had  broken  down.  She  was  much  touched  by  her 
sister-in-law’s  kindness  to  George,  who  had  dined  with  Mr. 
Falconer  and  herself  the  night  before,  and  had  represented 
Annie  as  the  guardian  angel  of  the  family. 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


215 


“Wilfred  has  come  up  to  town,  and  he  was  with  us  too,” 
said  Lilian.  “ And  he  talks  of  you  just  as  well,  and  wants 
to  come  and  see  you,  but  he  doesn’t  dare.  You  are  a good 
little  thing,  Annie,  to  keep  so  staid  now  when  every  one 
is  talking  about  you,  and  when  Harry  has  treated  you  so 
badly.” 

“ Who  told  you  that?”  said  Annie,  sharply. 

“ George.  But  never  mind;  you  mustn’t  be  angry  with 
him  or  with  me.  What  has  become  of  Mr.  Cooke?”  she 
asked,  in  a low  voice. 

“Mr.  Cooke!  Oh,  he  is  married,  I believe;  at  least  I 
am  sure  he  is!”  she  answered,  in  an  indifferent  tone,  but 
blushing. 

“ Married?  Oh,  well,  I am  glad  of  that!” 

“There  is  no  need  on  my  account,”  said  Annie, 
haughtily. 

“ No,  no— of  course  not,  child.  Still  I am  glad.” 

“ People  say  they  get  on  very  badly.  And  now  he  is  ill, 
I hear.” 

The  tears  were  starting  to  Annie’s  eyes;  and  Lilian, 
whom  ill  health  had  softened,  began  to  cry  too  for  sympa- 
thy. Annie  fought  down  her  emotion. 

“ Have  you  heard  from  any  of  the  others— William  or 
Stephen?”  she  asked,  to  turn  the  conversation. 

“Stephen  came  to  see  me  this  morning.  He  is  in 
wretched  health,  and  seems  to  have  an  unaccountable  dis- 
like to  talking  about  you.  I told  him  to  come  and  see  me 
this  afternoon,  and  I expect  he  is  waiting  for  me  now. 
I shall  send  Wilfred  to  see  you  to-morrow.  Good-bye, 
you  good  child.  I don't  know  what  to  wish  for  you.” 

And  Lilian,  whose  movements  were  slow  and  languid, 
and  whose  beautiful  face  had  grown  thin  with  illness, 
kissed  her  sister-in-law  affectionately  and  left  her. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

Annie  did  not  sleep  that  night.  Thoughts  of  poor  Au- 
brey and  the  wreck  the  clever  young  man  had  made  of  his 
life,  and  remorse  at  her  own  share  in  bringing  it  about,  oc- 
cupied part  of  the  weary,  wakeful  night,  and  brought  some 
tears  to  her  eyes.  But  her  mind  went  back  again  and 
again  to  the  husband  who  had  deserted  her,  whose  address 
was  in  the  hands  of  Muriel  West,  and  whom  she  upbraided 
one  moment  and  prayed  for  the  next.  For  the  sentiment 
planted  by  his  own  forbearance  and  tenderness  had  struck 
deep  root  during  these  months  of  suspense  which  had  fol- 
lowed, in  spite  of  the  shortness  of  his  letters  and  the  long 
periods  of  silence  between,  in  spite  of  his  ingratitude  in  not 
acknowledging  the  sacrifices  she  had  made  to  help  him,  in 


216 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


spite  of  her  doubts  of  his  fidelity,  in  spite  of  the  indiffer- 
ence his  never  once  coming  to  see  her  had  seemed  to  prove. 

The  fact  was  that  Annie  had  at  last  found  something  to 
respect  in  her  husband.  During  that  week  which  dwelt  so 
continually  in  her  memory,  he  had  taken  his  rightful 
place  as  her  superior,  owing  to  the  discovery  which  had 
forced  her  to  appear  before  him  as  a culprit.  She  hoped 
and  even  prayed  that  the  reason  he  had  given  for  leaving 
her — viz.,  his  determination  to  work  for  himself  and  her, 
rather  than  live  on  her  money — might  prove  to  be  the  true 
one,  so  that  he  might  deserve  the  place  he  had  insensibly 
won  in  her  heart.  Yet  how  to  reconcile  the  love  which  had 
prompted  this  determination  with  his  acquaintance  with 
Muriel  West,  his  giving  to  this  woman  the  jewelry  she  had 
deprived  herself  of  to  help  him  out  of  his  difficulties,  with 
the  fact  that  it  was  to  Muriel  she  had  been  referred  for  his 
address,  and  with  his  acceptance,  without  a word  of  ac- 
knowledgment, of  her  money?  In  spite  of  all,  she  would 
fain  have  cleared  him  of  these  charges,  and,  failing  that, 
she  was  ready  to  take  the  greater  share  of  the  blame  of 
his  misconduct  on  her  shoulders,  and  to  forgive  him  the 
rest,  if  he  would  but  ask  for  forgiveness.  All  the  excuses 
which  she  had  refused  to  make  for  the  headstrong  bride- 
groom of  twenty,  when  she,  the  bride  of  eighteen,  shut  up 
her  heart  against  her  rough,  boyish  husband,  now  appealed 
to  her  with  irresistible  force.  He  was  so  young;  he  had 
been  so  badly  brought  up;  his  family  had  been  “wild  ” 
for  generations ; he  had  meant  to  treat  her  kindly,  and  his 
marriage  with  her  had  been  the  result  of  a generous  im- 
pulse; he  had  given  up  drinking  since  his  illness,  for  her 
sake;  while  she  had  run  away  from  him,  treated  with 
coldness  his  first  protestations  of  love  on  his  recovery,  re- 
fused to  stay  with  him,  concealed  her  marriage  from  oth- 
ers. Was  it  surprising  that  he  should  bestow  his  warm 
affections  elsewhere,  when  she  had  shown  herself  so  in- 
different to  every  proof  of  his  love? 

One  determination  she  came  to,  as  the  result  of  a sleep- 
less night  of  agitation  and  reflection— she  would  find  out 
where  Harry  was,  without  the  delay  of  another  day,  and 
come  to  some  explanation  with  him.  But  how  was  she 
to  do  this?  She  could  not  descend  to  ask  his  address  of 
Muriel,  and  the  only  other  person  she  knew  who  could 
give  her  the  information  she  wanted  was  Stephen  Lawler, 
who  had  proved  himself  almost  inaccessible  to  her.  He 
had  not  replied  to  her  last  letter,  asking  for  news  of 
Harry;  so  that  now  her  only  plan  was  to  hunt  him  out  and 
insist  upon  his  telling  her  where  her  husband  was. 
Whether  she  would  be  successful  in  this  by  fair  means  was 
doubtful,  as  Stephen,  with  all  his  servile  docility  to  any 


A VAGRANT  wife. 


217 


One  to  whom  he  was  attached,  was  as  doggedly  obstinate 
by  nature  as  the  rest  of  his  family,  and  could  take  refuge 
in  stolid  silence  when  driven  into  a corner.  However,  she 
must  try. 

The  next  day  she  drove  to  the  club  to  which  she  ad- 
dressed her  letters  to  him  and  her  husband,  but  heard  that 
he  was  not  there.  She  was  not  ingenuous  enough  to  be 
satisfied  with  this  answer;  and,  after  going  away  and  re- 
turning several  times  with  unwearying  persistency  to  a 
spot  down  a side  street  from  which  she  could  watch  the 
entrance  to  the  club,  she  at  length  saw  the  cripple  de- 
scend the  steps  very  slowly,  and  walk  away  with  the  aid 
of  his  crutches.  She  followed  him.  His  infirmity  made 
it  easy  for  her  to  keep  him  in  sight  without  going  near 
enough  for  him  to  notice  her.  He  left  the  crowded  fash- 
ionable streets,  and  made  his  way  at  length  to  a narrow, 
quiet  street  in  a dirty,  unattractive  neighborhood,  where 
unkempt  children  played  and  screamed  in  the  gutters  in 
front  of  dingy  houses  where  apartments  were  let,  pre- 
sumably cheap  and  uninviting.  At  the  door  of  one  of 
these  he  stopped,  and  taking  no  notice  of  a few  howls  from 
the  ragged  boys  at  his  crutches,  took  out  his  key  and 
went  in. 

Struck  with  wonder  at  such  a choice  of  residence  by  the 
fastidious  cripple,  and  with  pity  at  the  forlorn  existence 
it  implied,  Annie  hesitated  about  pressing  her  inquiries 
that  day.  But  her  anxiety  to  hear  about  her  husband 
overbore  all  scruples,  and,  after  allowing  a short  interval 
between  his  arrival  and  hers,  she  knocked  at  the  door.  A 
little  girl  opened  it,  and,  upon  being  asked  if  Mr.  Lawler 
lived  here,  nodded  her  head  backward  in  the  direction  of 
the  staircase,  with  the  brief  direction,  “Third  floor,  right 
up  top;”  and,  as  she  made  no  attempt  at  the  ceremony  of 
announcement,  Annie  only  asked  which  was  the  door  of 
the  sitting-room,  and,  on  being  told  “ You  go  right  straight 
into  it  soon  as  yer  get  up,”  she  showed  herself  up  without 
further  delay.  When  she  reached  the  third  floor,  she 
found  the  door  of  the  little  sitting-room  half  open,  and, 
after  knocking  twice  and  getting  no  answer,  she  went 
in. 

It  was  a meagerly  furnished  room,  not  much  better  than 
a garret,  bearing  evidences  of  Stephen’s  occupation  of  it 
in  its  extreme  tidiness — for  he  was  always  neat  and  orderly 
in  his  surroundings.  The  only  thing  which  looked  out  of 
its  place  was  a flat  hamper,  which  stood  with  the  lid  open 
on  one  of  the  chairs.  Annie  stood  for  a few  minutes  in 
the  middle  of  the  room  without  hearing  any  sound ; then, 
attracted  by  the  scent  of  flowers  and  by  the  sight  of  the 
ferns  and  leaves  which  evidently  covered  them,  she  glanced 


m 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


again  at  the  hamper,  crossed  the  room,  and  saw,  laid  on 
the  leaves,  a visiting-card  with  her  husband’s  name  and 
address  upon  it — “ Mr.  Harold  Braith waite,  Kirby  Park” 
—and  penciled  underneath  the  name,  in  his  handwriting,, 
were  the  words—44  With  love  to  my  darling!” 

With  a throb  of  mad  hope  she  seized  the  lid  and  looked 
outside  for  the  direction.  Then  she  stood  looking  at  that, 
as  still  and  almost  as  white  as  stone,  for  the  hamper  was 
directed  in  a different  handwriting  to  “Miss  Muriel  West, 
Victoria  Street.  ” She  was  still  standing  by  it  when  a little 
moan  she  uttered  unconsciously  brought  Stephen  from  the 
next  room.  He  started,  and  grew  in  an  instant  as  white 
as  she  when  he  saw  her. 

“Stephen,  I did  not  mean  to  frighten  you.  What  I 
came  to  ask  you  I have  found  out  already— here;”  and  she 
glanced  at  her  husband’s  card. 

But  the  cripple  began  to  tremble  from  head  to  foot,  and 
to  stammer  out  that  it  was  the  wrong  address,  that  Harry 
was  no  longer  there,  that  no  letter  sent  there  would  reach 
him. 

44  Tell  me  his  right  address  then,”  said  Annie,  recovering 
her  calmness.  “ It  is  of  no  use  to  try  to  keep  it  from  me 
any  longer,  for  I will  find  him  out,  and  I will  stand  face 
to  face  with  him  before  another  week  is  over !” 

“But  you  must  not,  Annie,”  declared  the  cripple,  his 
forehead  damp  with  agitation.  “ He  will  not  see  you;  he 
will  threaten  you,  abuse  you.  If  you  attempt  to  force 
yourself  upon  him  against  his  will,  I will  not  answer  for 
the  consequences.” 

“ I can  face  the  consequences,”  said  Annie,  quietly.  “ I 
can  suffer  anything  but  being  cheated,  and  deceived,  and 
tricked,  as  I have  been  by  both  of  you.  I shall  find  out 
where  Kirby  Park  is,  and  go  there  without  delay.” 

“ You  will  not  see  him  there.  He  was  there;  but  he  is 
gone,  and  they  cannot  tell  you  where.” 

‘‘Very  well.  Then  I shall  find  out  where  he  is  from 
Muriel  West.” 

4<  Go  to  her  then — go  to  her;  ask  her,  if  you  can  stoop  so 
low,  where  the  flowers  come  from  that  deck  her  rooms — 
that  lie  in  her  hair.  And,  when  you  are  satisfied,  find  out 
your  husband,  if  your  pride  does  not  hold  you  back,  and 
enjoy  the  welcome  he  will  give  you.” 

In  the  midst  of  her  own  distress  Annie  feared  for  the 
effect  of  the  strong  excitement  under  which  he  was  labor- 
ing upon  the  fragile  frame  of  the  cripple,  and,  without  any 
further  answer  to  his  taunts,  or  any  more  reproaches  for 
his  double-dealing,  she  wished  him  good  bye  very  gravely, 
and,  taking  the  card  from  among  the  leaves  before  he  could 
Stop  her,  she  left  the  room  as  he  was  struggling  to  reach 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


210 


the  door  to  prevent  her  exit.  It  seemed  a horrible  thing 
to  leave  him  alone,  cripple  that  he  was,  in  a state  of  such 
litter  bodily  prostration  as  this  scene  had  reduced  him  to; 
but  she  knew  that  he  would  accept  no  help  from  her  hands, 
and  she  went  down  the  narrow  dark  stairs  sadly  and 
slowly,  listening  as  she  went,  lest  she  should  hear  him 
fall.  But  she  heard  no  sound  from  the  room  up  stairs, 
and,  as  she  left  the  house  and  walked  toward  home,  her 
thoughts  turned  from  the  miserable  instrument  of  her  hus- 
band’s treachery  to  Harry  himself,  with  all  her  newly 
awakened  love  changed  to  a passionate  wish  for  vengeance 
upon  him  for  this  cruel  deceit. 

Kirby  Park —Kirby  Park!  That  was  where  she  would 
go— where,  in  spite  of  Stephen’s  worthless  protestations, 
she  believed  that  she  should  find  her  husband  and  be  able 
to  confront  him,  and  sting  him  with  the  sharp  taunts  which 
rose  to  her  lips  now,  which  should  make  him  writhe  and 
start  and  feel  shame,  however  callous  he  had  become. 
Her  passive  hatred  he  had  felt  before,  and  had  been  able 
to  afford  to  treat  with  indifference ; she  would  see  whether 
the  active  hatred  into  which  his  shameless  neglect  and  in- 
gratitude had  turned  her  wistful  affection  would  not  make 
him  feel  some  of  the  pangs  he  had  caused  her.  Annie 
felt  changed  by  that  day’s  discovery  into  a wicked 
woman,  with  no  feelings  of  pity  or  pardon  possible,  who 
would  stop  at  nothing  in  the  madness  of  her  misery.  She 
sacrificed  even  her  womanly  dignity,  in  her  wish  to  make 
the  husband  who  had  despised  her  love  feel  an  added  pang 
at  the  sight  of  her.  She  would  not  simply  go  down,  hunt 
him  out,  and  confound  him ; she  would  let  him  think  it  was 
the  worthless  woman  he  loved  who  was  coming  to  see  him, 
so  that  disappointment  might  be  added  to  his  annoyance  at 
meeting  his  wife. 

It  was  Friday,  and  she  could  not  leave  town  until  Sun- 
day, her  only  free  day.  As  soon  as  she  reached  home,  she 
collected  some  parts  she  had  played  on  tour,  lent  her  by 
Muriel,  and  copied  in  that  lady’s  handwriting. 

These  Annie  placed  before  her  until  she  had  mastered 
every  detail  of  the  slanting  scrawl,  and  then  she  wrote  the 
following  note  on  a half  sheet  of  paper,  in  an  imitation  of 
Miss  West’s  writing: 

“Dear  Harry, — I will  come  down  and  see  you  on  Sun- 
day by  the  2.30  train  from  Waterloo.  Send  somebody  to 
meet  me.  Your  Darling.” 

Annie  had  consulted  a railway  time-table  and  found  a 
suitable  train.  She  posted  this  letter,  and  on  the  following 
Sunday  started  for  Kirby  Park,  in  a fever  at  the  audacity 
pf  her  enterprise, 


220 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


She  had  had  time,  since  sending  off  the  note  to  her  hus* 
band,  to  be  the  prey  of  regrets  at  her  hasty  action,  to  ask 
herself  whether  she  was  justified  in  giving  him  the  shock 
she  had  prepared  for  him,  whether  it  would  not  have  been 
better,  as  it  would  certainly  have  been  more  dignified,  to 
take  no  notice  of  the  discovery  she  had  made,  save  in  a 
cold  letter  declining  to  hold  any  further  communication 
with  him,  or  challenging  him  to  give  some  explanation  of 
his  conduct.  She  was  beginning  to  fear  too  some  outbreak 
of  her  husband’s  passionate  temper  when  he  discovered 
the  trick  she  had  played  upon  him.  Then  conjecture  as  to 
what  her  husband  was  doing  at  Kirby  Park— he  had  the 
name  on  his  cards  as  if  it  belonged  to  him— and  excite- 
ment at  the  thought  that  she  was  about  at  last  to  solve 
the  mystery  of  his  occupation  added  to  the  wild  con- 
fusion in  her  mind.  She  had  heard  of  Kirby  Park,  but 
she  could  not  remember  when  or  how,  and  the  most  ex- 
travagant guesses  occurred  to  her  as  to  the  position 
she  would  find  her  husband  occupying.  And  through 
all  her  passionate  anger,  her  wish  for  revenge,  her  won- 
der, and  her  sorrow  there  was  deep  down  in  her  heart  a 
fierce  eagerness  to  see  him  again,  to  hear  his  voice,  to  feel 
the  touch  of  his  hand,  even  if  it  were  not  held  out  in  wel- 
come. 

Part  of  her  curiosity  regarding  her  husband’s  occupa- 
tion was  satisfied  before  she  reached  Kirby.  Two  gen- 
tlemen had  got  into  the  same  carriage  with  her  at  Water- 
loo, and  her  attention  was  caught  by  the  words  “Kirby 
Park  ” in  their  talk;  and,  when  her  thoughts  had  wan- 
dered off  again  to  the  subjects  which  were  absorbing  her, 
she  was  suddenly  recalled  to  the  presence  of  her  two  com- 
panions by  a reference  to  “young  Braithwaite”  by  one  of 
them. 

“You  need  not  have  the  least  apprehension  on  that 
score,”  said  the  other.  “ He  has  a sort  of  genius  for  the 
management  of  horses,  and  has  lived  more  in  the  stable 
than  in  the  house  ever  since  he  was  about  two.  I would 
trust  him,  on  any  matter  connected  with  them,  before  any 
man  I know,  young  or  old.” 

“He  is  a gentleman  by  birth,  isn’t  he?”  asked  the 
younger  man. 

“ Yes.  Haven’t  you  heard  of  the  pranks  of  Sir  George 
Braithwaite,  one  of  the  typical  hare-brained  scamps  of  a 
generation  ago?  This  lad  is  his  son;  his  eldest  brother,  the 
present  Sir  George,  had  to  sell  the  estate  a few  months  ago, 
and  it  was  then  young  Harold  came  to  me,  reminded  me  I 
was  his  godfather,  and  said,  if  I didn’t  give  him  some  work 
to  do,  he  would  bang  himself  on  the  gate-post  as  he  went 
put.  So  I usked  him  what  he  could  do,  and  he  said  he  could 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


m 


ride.  I told  him  I had  no  doubt  of  that;  but  he  was  a long 
way  too  heavy  for  a jockey.  4 Well,  make  me  coachman, 
groom— anything,’ said  he;  4 and,  when  once  you  get  me 
into  a stable,  you’ll  soon  see  I know  more  about  my  work 
than  anybody  there.  You  needn’t  say  who  I am,  and 
they’ll  never  find  out  I’m  a gentleman,’  he  ended,  rather 
bitterly.  Well,  I couldn’t  do  that  of  course;  but  I got  the 
lad  to  stay  with  me,  for  I was  rather  interested  by  his  ob- 
stinacy, and  thought  I would  find  out  what  he  could  do.  I 
soon  found  he  could  sit  anything,  break  in  anything,  and 
could  give  points  to  most  horsy  men  on  any  matter  of 
training  or  going.  So  I made  up  my  mind  to  give  him  a 
trial,  and  I set  him  up  at  Kirby  Park  and  put  some  of  my 
racers  under  his  care.  And  of  course  two  or  three  more 
have  followed  my  example ; and  now  the  lad  has  his  hands 
full,  and  has  got  a fair  chance.” 

4 4 It  is  a great  responsibility  for  such  a young  man.  He 
ought  to  be  very  grateful  to  you ” 

44  Well,  I hope  I may  have  reason  to  be  grateful  to  him. 
My  only  fear  was  as  to  whether  he  would  stick  to  it.  He 
was  very  wild  a year  or  two  ago,  I’ve  heard ; but  he  seems 
steady  enough  now,  as  far  as  I can  find  out.  I think  I’ve 
got  the  right  man  in  the  right  place,  and  that  he  feels  in 
his  element,  and  will  settle  down  all  right.  We  shall 
see.” 

With  breathless  interest  Annie  had  listened  to  all  this. 
This,  then,  was  the  occupation  which  her  husband  had 
found,  and  of  which,  according  to  Stephen,  he  was  ashamed 
for  her  to  hear!  He  had  become  a trainer.  But  Annie 
felt  intoxicated  with  pride  at  the  thought  that  her  husband 
had  shown  a special  capacity  which  proved  him  to  be  much 
more  than  the  lazy,  incompetent  idler  she  used  to  consider 
him,  that  he  had  shown  talent  and  had  found  a field  for 
it,  that,  if  he  had  taken  her  money  without  acknowledg- 
ment, he  had  at  least  not  lived  upon  it  in  idle  dependence. 
But  this  discovery  only  made  the  thought  of  his  infidelity 
more  bitter;  in  the  very  moment  when  she  found  that  he 
possessed  all  the  qualities  which  might  have  earned  her 
respect  as  well  as  her  devotion,  she  was  hastening  to  a 
meeting  which  would  fill  him  with  disappointment  and 
anger,  and  bring  down  upon  herself  his  execration  instead 
of  his  welcome. 

She  felt  afraid  of  him.  Already  she  was  hesitating 
whether  she  should  go  back  without  seeing  him,  asking 
herself  whether  she  could  contrive  to  miss  him  at  the  sta- 
tion, when  the  slackening  of  the  train’s  speed  and  the  ex- 
clamation of  one  of  the  gentlemen,  44  Here  we  are!”  told 
her  that  the  end  of  her  journey  was  reached. 

44  Hallo,  there’s  Harry  himself!”  said  the  elder  gentle- 


222 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


man,  looking  out  of  the  window.  “Why,  how  many 
more  of  us  does  he  expect?  He  has  brought  the  dog-cart 
as  well  as  the  phaeton.  Nice  turn-out,  that!”  he  added  ad- 
miringly. “Here  he  is!  Well,  how  are  you,  Harry?”  he 
called  out,  as  he  turned  the  handle  of  the  door  and  stepped 
down  on  to  the  platform. 

Annie  sprung  to  her  feet  at  the  other  end  of  the  car 
riage  and  looked  out  eagerly.  There  stood  Harry,  in  a 
light  overcoat,  his  face  rather  flushed  and  his  blue  eyes 
sparkling,  looking,  she  thought,  handsomer  than  she  had 
ever  seen  him.  He  shook  hands  with  the  two  gentlemen, 
and  then  he  caught  sight  of  her.  She  was  watching  him 
intently ; but  he  was  better  schooled  than  in  the  old  days, 
and  no  one  could  have  detected  disappointment  in  the 
flash  which  passed  over  his  face  on  seeing  her.  She  came 
to  the  carriage  door,  and,  as  he  helped  her  out,  he  said,  in 
a matter-of-fact  tone,  as  if  he  had  expected  her: 

“So  you  all  came  down  in  the  same  carriage,  Lord 
Lytham?” — turning  to  the  elder  gentleman.  “Allow  me 
to  introduce  you  to  my  wife.” 

She  was  then  introduced  to  the  younger  man,  Captain 
King,  who  begged  to  be  allowed  to  drive  her  in  the  dog- 
cart, and  the  other  two  drove  in  the  mail-phaeton,  in 
which  Harry  himself  had  come  to  the  station. 

Kirby  Park  was  only  three  quarters  of  a mile  off.  The 
house  was  a large,  heavy-looking  building,  which  would 
have  been  ugly  but  for  the  trees  about  it.  The  park  in 
which  it  stood  was  an  extremely  beautiful  one,  and,  as  the 
dog-cart  followed  the  other  carriage  up  the  winding  road 
through  it,  Annie’s  thoughts  were  for  a few  moments  di- 
verted by  the  loveliness  of  the  scene  around  her  from  the 
doubts  and  fears  which  were  agitating  her. 

When  they  reached  the  house  her  husband  was  stand- 
ing on  the  steps  to  help  her  to  alight.  As  they  all  went  in, 
he  said : 

“ You  would  like  to  rest  while  we  go  down  to  the  stable, 
Annie.  Mrs.  Clewer  will  take  care  of  you  until  we  come 
back.” 

A very  staid,  elderly  woman,  the  model  of  a trustworthy 
housekeeper,  stepped  forward  and  led  Annie  up-stairs  to 
take  off  her  mantle. 

“Whose  room  is  this?”  asked  Annie,  as  she  was  shown 
into  a large  front  room  with  a beautiful  view  of  the  park 
and  the  landscape  beyond. 

“Mr.  Braith waite’s,  ma’am.” 

Annie  trembled  as  she  entered.  She  could  not  think  yet, 
could  not  understand  what  this  calm  welcome  foreboded. 
As  his  hand  had  touched  hers  in  helping  her  from  the  dog- 
cart it  had  pot  held  hers  quite  steadily ; but  Annie  had  not 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


22  S 


been  able  to  see  his  face,  had  not  known  what  emotion 
caused  his  fingers  to  close  for  an  instant  so  convulsively 
on  her  own.  What  did  he  mean  to  do?  What  would  he 
say  when  at  last  the  time  came,  as  come  it  must,  for  speak- 
ing to  her  alone? 

Mrs.  Clewer  took  her  to  the  drawing-room— a cold,  bare 
room  which  looked  as  if  it  were  little  lived  in ; and,  when 
the  gentlemen  came  in,  and  tea  was  presently  brought,  she 
played  hostess  very  gracefully,  doing  her  best  to  make  her 
husband  proud  of  her  by  charm  of  speech  and  manner. 
Whatever  effect  she  might  have  upon  her  husband,  who 
spoke  little  to  her  and  never  once  looked  into  her  face, 
she  enchained  her  guests,  who  regretted  sincerely  that 
they  could  not  stay  to  dinner,  and  delayed  their  departure 
until  they  were  in  danger  of  missing  their  train.  When 
at  last  they  left,  and  Harry  accompanied  them  to  the  park 
gates,  she  retreated  to  the  deserted  drawing-room,  threw 
open  the  window  for  air,  and  leaned  against  it,  shaking 
from  head  to  foot  with  excitement  and  fear.  Then,  after 
what  seemed  a long  time,  during  which  she  thought  with 
horror  that  he  had  gone  away  to  escape  her,  she  heard  his 
tread  in  the  hall. 

“ Oh,  heavens,  what  will  he  say  to  me?”  thought  she. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

Annie  heard  her  husband  open  the  door,  but  she  did  not 
turn  round;  then  she  heard  his  footsteps  advance  to  the 
middle  of  the  room  and  stop.  She  still  stood  leaning 
against  the  open  French  window,  seeing  nothing  before 
her,  and  waiting  for  him  to  speak  to  learn  what  tone  he 
was  going  to  assume  toward  her.  At  last  she  heard  him 
clear  his  throat,  as  if  to  attract  her  attention ; but  she  took 
no  notice.  She  fancied  he  must  be  working  himself  up  to 
a proper  pitch  of  indignation,  and  she  tried  to  school  her- 
self to  show  a bold  front  when  at  last  his  wrath  should 
burst  out.  Her  case  was  the  stronger  by  far,  and,  al- 
though that  fact  did  not  give  her  all  the  consolation  it 
should  have  done  at  that  moment,  yet  it  would  stand  her 
in  good  stead  when  the  conflict  had  really  begun.  Never- 
theless, she  would  have  given  worlds  for  the  sang-froid 
with  which  she  had  entered  upon  any  contest  with  him  in 
the  old  days  when  his  opinion  upon  any  subject  was  a 
matter  of  indifference  to  her,  and  when  his  outbursts  of 
unreasonable  anger  had  excited  in  her  nothing  but  con- 
tempt and  disgust. 

He  cleared  his  throat  again,  and  again  she  took  no  notice. 
At  last  he  spoke : 


m 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


“Annie,  aren’t  you  going  to  speak  to  me?”  he  asked,  in 
the  gentlest,  most  entreating  of  voices. 

She  turned  round  in  surprise.  He  stood  there  before 
her,  this  big,  handsome  young  fellow  who  could  tame  the 
most  fiery  of  horses  with  a hand  and  a will  of  iron,  shy, 
nervous,  irresolute,  looking  down  with  wistful  submission 
on  the  small,  slight  woman  at  the  window. 

“ Haven’t  you  a word  for  me  after  all  these  weeks?”  said 
he,  as  she  was  silent.  “I  can’t  help  being  horsy,  so  wasn’t 
it  better  to  turn  my  horsiness  to  some  account?  I forgave 
you  for  not  answering  my  letters;  but,  now  you’ve  come  to 
see  me  of  your  own  accord,  I think  you  might  have  a kiss 
for  me.” 

Annie  looked,  listened,  in  utter  bewilderment.  Letters! 
Kisses!  What  was  he  talking  about?  Was  this  Harry, 
with  the  loving,  pleading  eyes  and  the  gently  reproachful 
tone,  the  ungrateful,  faithless  husband  she  had  come  to 
upbraid?  Was  this  some  artful  plan  to  avert  her  accusa- 
tions by  being  first  with  trifling  charges  against  herself? 
Still  in  perplexity,  but  thawing  in  spite  of  herself  under 
his  affectionate  words,  she  moved  mechanically  toward 
him.  But  the  want  of  spontaneity  in  the  action  roused 
his  passionate  temper,  and  he  stepped  back  from  her,  his 
face  all  flushed  with  wounded  pride  and  affection. 

“ Don’t  make  a martyr  of  yourself,  pray,”  said  he.  “ I 
don’t  want  a little,  cold  duty-peck  because  I’m  your  hus- 
band. If  you  can’t  kiss  me  because  you  love  me  don’t  kiss 
me  at  all.” 

She  was  in  his  arms,  clinging  to  him,  her  upturned  face 
aglow  with  passionate  love,  almost  before  he  had  spoken 
the  last  words  of  his  hasty  outburst.  Muriel  West,  money, 
jewelry,  unanswered  letters— all  were  forgotten,  thrust 
aside  as  matters  to  be  explained  hereafter  or  shelved  as 
things  of  no  account.  Whomsoever  he  might  have  loved 
in  the  past  he  loved  her  now;  whatever  he  might  have 
done  he  was  holding  her  in  his  arms  now ; and  he  might 
condescend  to  prove  his  innocence  of  every  charge  she 
might  bring  against  him,  or  he  might  treat  them  with  con- 
temptuous silence— he  was  her  husband,  she  loved  him,  he 
loved  her — what  else  could  matter  at  that  moment? 

It  was  not  until  they  were  sitting  side  by  side  on  the 
sofa  in  the  twilight  that  some  words  of  his  roused  in  her 
the  remembrance  of  the  grievances  with  which  she  had 
come  armed. 

“ Why  didn’t  you  come  before,  my  darling?  I have  been 
longing  for  a sight  of  you ; and  the  only  glimpses  I got  of 
you  were  on  the  stage.” 

But  why  was  that?  Why  didn’t  you  come  and  see  me, 
ersend  for  me?” 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


225 


11  How  could  I,  when  you  were  so  disgusted  with  me?” 
Annie’s  face  fell.  A cloud  had  come  over  this  new  hap- 
piness already.  He  had  himself  reminded  her  of  his  own 
delinquencies,  which  she  had  been  ready  enough,  in  the 
first  flush  of  this  joy  in  her  husband’s  society,  to  believe 
untrue. 

“ I think,”  said  she,  drawing  her  hand  out  of  his  in- 
stinctively, “ that  I had  reason  to  be.” 

“ But  I don’t  think  you  had  any,”  said  he  earnestly.  “ I 
know  you  will  be  able  to  prove  you  were  right,  because 
you  are  so  much  cleverer  than  me  that  what  you  say  always 
sounds  right,  even  when  I can’t  help  thinking  you’re 
really  wrong  after  all.” 

“Well,  prove  that  I had  no  reason  to  be  annoyed,  and 
disgusted— if  you  can.” 

“Don’t  speak  so  coldly  to  me  then,  and  I will  tell  you 
what  I think ; but  I can’t  if  you  turn  away  your  head  so 
stiffly  and  speak  just  as  if  I were  the  old  Harry  that  you 
used  to  hate.” 

“ I’m  not  sure  that  I don’t  hate  you  till  I have  heard  what 
you  have  to  say  for  yourself.” 

“Yes,  you  are,”  said  Harry,  twining  her  arm  about 
his  neck  with  confidence.  “You  needn’t  think  I’m  so 
simple  as  not  to  know  the  difference  between  Annie  who 
is  sweet  out  of  duty,  and  Annie  who  is  sweet  out  of  pleas- 
ure.” 

“ Go  on  with  your  explanations.” 

“Well,  you  were  disgusted  with  me,  and  thought  I was 
degrading  myself.  ” 

“Stephen  told  you  that!” 

“ Yes,  and  that  you  thought  it  nearly  as  bad  as  being  a 
groom,  and  declared  I should  give  it  up  in  a month  and 
idle  about  again,  and  that  it  would  take  you  a longtime  to 
get  used  to  having  a trainer  for  a husband.” 

“ Stephen — told  you — that?” 

“Yes,  of  course;  he  was  bound  to  tell  me  all  you  said!” 
“ All — I— said?” 

“Yes,  yes!  Ah,  you’re  sorry  now,  aren’t  you,  my  dar- 
ling? You  see  you  wanted  me  to  work,  and  there  is  noth- 
ing else  I’m  fit  for,  unless  I had  gone  for  a soldier  or  sailor. 
And  you  see  I’m  not  a bit  horsier  than  I was  before.  You 
needn’t  even  know  I’m  a trainer  unless  you  like.  I had  all 
the  whips  taken  out  of  the  hall  to-day,  and  I hid  my  spurs 
and  top  boots  and  things  that  were  lying  about  my  room, 
so  that  you  shouldn’t  be  reminded  more  of  it  than  I could 
help.  And  see — I’ve  taken  out  my  horse-shoe  pin ; and  I’ve 

shut  up  the  dogs  in  the  stable,  and Annie,  Annie,  what 

are  you  crying  for?” 

“ I— -I  don’t  know  in  the  least ! Go  on !” 


226 


A VAGRANT  WIF&. 


“Well,  you  see  it  did  seem  rather  rough  on  a fellow, 
when  I was  doing  my  best,  and  not  drinking— and  working 
hard,  so  that  I might  have  you  with  me — when  you  hardly 
ever  wrote,  and  only  answered  about  one  out  of  three  of 
my  letters.  I know  they  weren’t  spelled  properly ; but,  if 
you  knew  how  I hate  writing  and  what  a trouble  even  a 
short  note  is  to  me — I never  seem  to  be  able  to  say  what  I 
mean  in  a letter,  somehow,  while  your  letters  are  just  like 
talking — I think,  if  you  knew  how  I hate  it,  you  would 
answer  more  often  than  you  do.” 

Annie  raised  her  eyes,  with  a startled  expression,  to  his 
face. 

“I  don’t  understand,”  said  she,  slowly.  “I  answered 
all  your  notes— they  were  very  few — and  I wrote  you  a 
long  letter,  begging  you  to  let  me  come  and  see  you;  did 
you  get  that?  In  it  I told  you  I should  be  proud  of  the 
work  you  were  doing,  whatever  it  was.  Did  you  get  that 
letter,  Harry?” 

He  was  startled  in  his  turn,  and  sat  looking  at  her  for  a 
few  moments  in  bewilderment.  Suddenly  Annie  sprung 
up,  trembling. 

“Harry,  ” said  she,  in  a low  voice,  “tell  me  quick — did 
you  get  the  letter?” 

“No.” 

“ Did  you— did  you  ever  receive  anything  sent  to  you  by 
me?” 

“ Oh,  yes;  I got  three  or  four  letters!” 

“ Nothing  else?”  she  asked,  breathlessly. 

“Yes;  once  you  sent  me  some  red.-and- white  flowers. 
I’ve  got  them  in  my  pocket-book.” 

“But  — but;  Harry — think  well,  dear,  dear  Harry,  please 
—didn’t  you  receive  anything  else  from  me?” 

“ Anything  else?  No,  I think  not;  I am  sure  not,  for  I 
should  never  forget  anything  you  had  sent  me,  Annie.” 

“ You  never  received,  for  instance ” 

“ Well,  what?  What  is  the  matter,  Annie?  What  did 
you  think  I received?” 

“ You  never  had — money  or — jewelry?” 

“From  you,  Annie?  No,  certainly  not!” 

She  sunk  at  his  feet  and  put  her  head  on  his  knees  in  a 
passion  of  tears. 

“ Thank  Heaven ! Oh,  Harry,  I am  so  happy ! And  yet 
something  frightens  me,”  she  sobbed ; while  he  looked 
down  at  her,  utterly  puzzled  and  astonished. 

“ What  do  you  mean,  Annie?  What  money — what  jew- 
elry ?” 

“ Nothing — nothing ! I— I don’t  know  what  I am  talking 
about.” 

“ But  I must  know.  Now,  darling,  tell  me.” 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


227 


“Will  you  listen  quietly,  then,  and  not  be  angry  with 
me — or  with  any  one?” 

“ I will  promise  to  listen  quietly,  and  not  to  be  angry 
with  you.  That  is  all.” 

Annie  hesitated . She  could  not  but  know  now  on  whom 
the  blame  of  this  miserable  misunderstanding  between  her- 
self and  her  husband  lay.  No  explanation  of  Stephen’s 
infamous  conduct  to  both  of  them  occurred  to  her  yet; 
but,  even  in  the  midst  of  her  indignation  against  him,  the 
pity  she  felt  for  the  forlorn,  weakly  cripple  urged  her  to 
shield  him  from  the  consequences  of  the  terrible  anger 
she  already  saw  gathering  in  Harry’s  blue  eyes. 

“ I don’t  think  I ought  to  tell  you  anything,”  she  said, 
gently,  “until  I have  found  out  whether  there  is  not  some 
explanation  to  be  given  of  the  matter.  You  are  looking 
angry  already.  Don’t  let  us  spoil  this  beautiful,  happy 
evening  by  unkind  and  harsh  thoughts  about  anybody, 
Harry.  Won’t  you  wait ” 

“No,  I won’t  wait!”  interrupted  he,  very  sternly. 
“Don’t  shrink  away,  Annie;  I love  you  for  your  sweet 
forgiveness ; it  is  right  for  a woman  to  be  ready  to  for- 
give. But  there  is  something  else  for  me  to  do.  Now  tell 
me  all  about  it.” 

“ Not  while  you  are  in  this  mood,  Harry.  I will  tell 
you  when  you  have  promised  to  let  it  pass  without  a word 
of  reproach,  except  just  what  you  may  say  to  me.” 

“You  will  tell  me  now,  and  without  my  making  any 
promise,  my  darling,”  said  he  very  softly,  drawing  her  up 
from  her  knees  to  a seat  by  his  side. 

Annie  had  never  before  felt  her  will  unable  to  carry  out 
her  purposes.  She  struggled  with  herself  now  as  she  sat 
in  the  firm  but  gentle  clasp  of  her  husband’s  arm,  and  saw 
his  head  bent  in  a listening  attitude  toward  hers.  Then, 
feeling  at  last  the  irresistible  force  of  a resolution  stronger 
than  her  own,  she  submitted— submitted  in  the  most  win- 
ning way  in  the  world,  placing  her  little  hands  on  either 
side  of  his  neck,  and  looking  up  at  him  with  her  sweetest, 
softest  expression  of  face  to'  coax  away  his  anger. 

“ Then  I must  trust  to  your  generosity,  Harry.  And,  if 
you  don’t  behave  generously  and  forgivingly  about  it,  I 
shall  think  you  are  not  glad  to  have  me  again,  for  happi- 
ness ought  always  to  make  people’s  hearts  softer. 

He  kissed  her  without  answering  in  words;  and  she 
went  on: 

“ When  Stephen  first  came  to  me  with  a letter  from  you, 
looking  very  ill,  very  miserable — I thought  he  was  going 
to  die — he  made  me  very  jealous  and  hurt  me  by  telling 
me  how  much  happier  you  were  now  you  were  away  from 
town  and  among  country  people  again.  He  did  not  know 


228 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


how  fond  I had  grown  of  you,  and  that  I was  silly  enough 
not  to  like  to  hear  how  well  you  were  getting  on  without 
me.  Were  you  as  happy  as  he  said,  Harry?” 

“ I was  happy  just  then,  because  Lord  Lytham  was  be- 
ginning to  show  confidence  in  me,  and  I saw  my  way  to 
earning  money  and  being  with  you  again.  But,  if  he  said 
I didn’t  miss  you,  he  told  lies.” 

“ He  did  not  say  that;  and  he  had  not  the  least  idea  how 
much  it  mattered  to  me.  But  I was  angry  with  you  for 
sending  me  such  a short  letter,  and  I thought  you  were 
enjoying  yourself,  and  very  likely  didn’t  care;  so  I tore  up 
the  long,  loving  letter  I had  written,  and  sent  you  a short 
one  saying  nothing,  like  yours.” 

“ Oh,  you  little  spiteful  creature!  I wrote  that  note  four 
times  before  I got  one  fit  to  send  you;  I was  so  afraid  you 
would  be  offended  if  I told  you  what  I was  going  to  do. 
I thought  I would  wait  until  I had  got  on,  and  then  come 
to  you  and  show  you  that  I could  be  just  as  fond  of  you 
as  if  I had  never  been  in  a stable  in  my  life.  And,  at  any 
rate,  I thought,  if  I succeeded,  you  would  think  it  was 
better  than  idling.” 

“ Better  than  idling!  Oh,  Harry,  it  is  better  than  any- 
thing for  you  to  be  successful  and  happy  and— and  fond 
of  me!”  Alter  a pause,  she  continued,  “When  he  came 
the  second  time,  he  said  you  were  not  getting  on  as  fast  as 
you  wished.” 

“That  was  true;  I was  in  low  spirits  about  it.  Well?” 

“ Then  he  said  it  was  very  hard  for  a man  without  money 
to  get  on.  He  said  that  himself,  not  that  you  had  said  it. 
And  I was  afraid  you  were  perhaps  in  serious  difficulty 
for  want  of  money,  and  I begged  him  to  take  some  that  I 
had  put  away  and  didn’t  wan’t.” 

“ And  he  took  it?” 

“ Wait.  He  refused  for  a long  time,  and  said  you  would 
not  think  of  accepting  my  money,  so  at  last  I pushed  it 
into  his  hand,  and  told  him  not  to  say  it  came  from  me. 
He  was  very  reluctant  to  the  last;  I expect  he  was  afraid 
to  give  it  you  and  afraid  to  give  it  back  to  me.” 

“Was  that  the  only  time  he  took  your  money?” 

“ No;  I gave  him  some  two  or  three  times— not  much,  of 
course — and  it  made  no  difference  to  me,  for  it  was  money 
I had  put  aside.  ” 

“ And  what  was  that  you  said  about  jewelry?  Come, 
Annie,  you  mustn’t  keep  back  anything!  It  isn’t  fair  to 
tell  only  half.” 

“ It  is  only  that  once,  when  I was  short  of  ready  money, 
and  anxious,  in  spite  of  poor  Stephen’s  entreaties,  to  send 
you  some,  I gave  him  a pair  of  ear-rings  and  two  other 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 229 

little  trinkets  I never  wore,  and  asked  him  to  sell  them  for 
me.” 

Harry  started  up  restlessly  from  the  sofa  and  began 
marching  up  and  down ; then  he  stopped  short  in  front  of 
her. 

“Why  didn’t  you  write  to  me  when  you  got  no  acknowl- 
edgment?” 

“ I didn’t  like  to.  I thought  Stephen  had  kept  from  you 
the  fact  that  the  money  came  from  me.” 

“ And  you  thought  I was  such  a booby  as  not  to  have 
guessed,  and  such  a bear  as  not  to  have  thanked  you? 
Annie,  that  is  impossible ! You  are  hiding  something  from 
me  still.” 

But  Annie  did  not  answer  or  look  at  him.  Her  eyes  were 
fixed  in  front  of  her,  as  a new  light  broke  in  upon  her  be- 
wildered mind. 

“ Harry,”  said  she  at  length,  raising  her  glittering  eyes 
to  his  with  an  expression  which  was  almost  fear,  4 4 those 
flowers— you  sent — by  Stephen — a few  days  ago ” 

“Oh,  did  you  get  those  then?  He  did  not  condescend 
to ” 

“ Were  they  for  me?”  she  asked,  in  a low  voice. 

“For  you!  Of  course  they  were  for  you;  who  else 
should  they  be  for?”  said  Harry,  irritably,  his  excitement 
getting  the  better  of  him. 

“ Not  for— not  for — Muriel  West!”  She  murmured  the 
name  so  low  that  she  had  to  repeat  it. 

“ Muriel  West?  No.  Who  on  earth  is  Muriel  West?” 

“ You  don’t  know !”  she  cried  joyfully.  «“  But,  Harry,  I 
saw  you  talking  to  her  on  ^ coach  at  Ascot.  ’ ’ 

“ Do  you  mean  an  actress  named  West?  Why,  Annie, 
how  jealous  you  are ! I scarcely  spoke  to  her,  and  shouldn’t 
have  done  so  at  all  if  Stephen  hadn’t  been  with  her.  A 
fellow  I know  took  me  to  supper  once  at  her  house  a long 
time  ago — it  was  the  very  night  of  my  accident— and  I 
have  never  seen  her  since,  except  that  day  at  Ascot.” 

“ Then  how  was  it  that  she  was  wearing  my  ornaments?” 
asked  Annie,  quickly ; and,  as  she  spoke,  the  truth  flashed 
upon  them  both. 

“The  little  mean  scoundrel!”  growled  Harry,  clinching 
his  fists.  “The  little  crooked,  lying  rascal!  He  shall 
suffer  for  this  clever  trick.  Then  he  got  all  he  could  out 
of  both  of  us,  and  kept  us  apart  by  his  lies ! Of  course 
you  never  said  it  was  a disgraceful  thing  for  me  to  turp 
trainer?” 

“ I never  knew  you  were  a trainer  until  this  afternoon, 
when  I heard  those  two  gentlemen  talking  about  you  in 
the  carriage  as  I came  down.  He  refused  to  give  me  your 
address,  saying  you  had  forbidden  him  to  do  so,  and  J 


230 


A VA  GRANT  WIFE . 


found  it  out  only  by  this  card.”  She  took  from  her  purse 
the  card  she  had  found  in  the  hamper,  and  continued,  4 4 1 
went  to  see  Stephen  last  Friday,  determined  to  find  out 
where  you  were.  I saw  a hamper  of  flowers  with  the  lid 
open,  and  inside  I found  this  card.  T looked  outside,  and 
found  that  the  direction  was  to  4 Miss  Muriel  West.’  ” 
“The  direction  had  been  changed;  I directed  it  to  you,, 
and  gave  it  to  that  wretched  little  hunchback  for  you. 
And,  Annie,  do  you  mean  to  say  that,  when  you  saw 
your  ornaments  on  that  woman,  you  thought  that  I had 
given  them  to  her?”  he  asked,  looking  at  her  almost  with 
horror. 

“ What  else  could  I think,  Harry?” 

“And  you  never  wrote  to  reproach  me?” 

“ I could  not  write  about  such  a thing — it  was  too  dread- 
ful ! I thought  I would  accuse  you  of  it  face  to  face.  But 
don’t  talk  about  it,  Harry,  please— I can’t  bear  to  think 
of  it  now ; it  was  wicked  of  me  ever  to  think  it  could  be 
true.” 

“And  you  came  down  here  to-day  still  believing  it! 
And  you  could  kiss  a man  you  believed  capable  of  such  an 
infamous  thing!” 

“No,  no,  Harry;  don’t  look  at  me  like  that!  The  mo- 
ment you  spoke  to  me  alone  in  this  room  I felt  it  could  not 
be  true ; because,  you  see,  I was  sure  you  loved  me,  and 
that  cleared  it  all  away.” 

And  her  husband  drew  her  again  into  his  arms,  with  a 
mist  before  his  own  eyes. 

Dusk  had  fallen,  and  they  were  still  sitting  there,  when 
they  were  roused  from  a silence  of  perfect  happiness  by 
the  prosaic  sound  of  the  dinner-bell.  Harry  had  great  diffi- 
culty in  keeping  his  boyish  high  spirits  under  proper  con- 
trolduring  dinner,  and,  when  it  was  over,  he  said: 

“ Let  us  go  out  of  doors,  Annie;  there  isn’t  room  enough 
for  my  happiness  in  a stuffy  house.” 

So  he  put  on  her  hat  and  mantle  very  carefully  andTvery 
clumsily,  and  they  went  out  into  the  park. 

“ Take  me  to  see  the  horses,  Harry.  Here’s  your  cigar- 
case;  I saw  it  up  stairs,  so  I brought  it  down.” 

“I  may  smoke  then?” 

“ Yes,  of  course.  You  are  going  the  wrong  way.  Isn’t 
that  the  way  to  the  stables?” 

“Yes;  but  I’m  not  going  to  take  you  there;  you  only 
ask  to  go  to  please  me.” 

“ On  my  word  of  honor,  I ask  to  go  to  please  myself; 
and,  if  you  don’t  like  to  take  me,  I shall  go  over  them  with 
one  of  the  stablemen,  while  you  are  sulking  over  your 
cigar  by  yourself.  Now  are  you  coming?” 
f3o  they  went  through  the  stables  together,  Harry 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


SBl 


was  quick  to  note  the  genuine  ring  in  the  interest,  for  what 
concerned  him  concerned  her  too  now ; and  they  walked 
all  round  the  park  together,  and  he  said : 

“Do  you  think  you  could  ever  live  happily  with  me  here, 
Annie?” 

“ And  give  up  the  stage?” 

“ Well,  act  only  now  and  then.  You  might  take  an  en- 
gagement for  three  months  or  more,  but  not  give  yourself 
up  to  it  altogether.  I know  you  are  too  clever  to  just 
settle  down  to  keeping  house  for  a dull,  ignorant  hus- 
band.” 

“ You're  not  dull  and  ignorant,  Harry.” 

“Well,  not  so  ignorant  as  I was,”  said  he,  with  myste- 
rious complacency.  4 ‘ Do  you  think  that  would  be  too  great 
a sacrifice,  Annie?”  * 

“ No,  indeed.  I couldn’t  throw  my  whole  heart  into  my 
acting  now  if  I thought  I was  neglecting  you.” 

“ And  you  will  come  and  see  me  every  Sunday,  and  stay 
till  Monday  evening  now,  won’t  you?  I mustn’t  ask  more 
than  that  yet,  I suppose.” 

And  she  consented  readily  enough.  And  then  came  the 
crowning  triumph  of  the  day  to  Harry.  He  led  his  wife 
into  the  library,  the  volumes  of  which  had  luckily  been 
collected  long  before  his  occupation  of  Kirby  Hall,  and 
said,  turning  proudly  to  her : 

“ You  never  thought  I should  get  fond  of  books,  Annie. 
Well,  I have,  and  I like  this  room  better  than  any  in  the 
house.” 

There  were  three  photographs  of  her  on  the  mantel-piece, 
there  was  a liqueur-case  on  a side-table,  and  the  room  was 
strongly  perfumed  with  tobacco.  Annie’s  eyes  twinkled, 
but  she  only  laughed  contentedly. 

“And  now  you  shall  hear  me  read  aloud,”  said  he. 

So  he  put  her  into  an  arm-chair,  and  sat  on  a footstool 
at  her  feet,  and  read  her  a couple  of  pages  of  the  Nine- 
teenth Century.  It  was  a very  poor  performance  indeed, 
hesitating,  badly  emphasized,  with  the  long  words  slurred 
over.  He  was  not  at  his  best,  for  he  had  Annie’s  fingers 
in  one  hand  and  his  cigar  in  his  mouth. 

“You  read  beautifully  now,  Harry !”  said  she,  when  he 
looked  up  for  approval;  and  the  clever,  well-informed 
woman  really  thought  so. 

“ It  only  shows  what  perseverance  will  do,”  said  Harry, 
gravely.  “ I’ve  read  that  piece  aloud  to  myself  twenty  ok 
thirty  times.” 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

Annie  passed  the  night  at  Kirby  Park ; and,  when  she 
and  Harry  were  sitting  at  breakfast  the  next  morning,  lie 
told  her  he  should  come  and  see  her  act  that  night. 

“ Then  will  you  come  up  to  town  with  me?”  she  asked 
eagerly. 

Her  husband  hesitated. 

“I  don’t  know  whether  I can,  Annie.  I have  some 
things  to  see  to  down  here  before  I start,  and  something 
to  do  in  town  when  I get  up  there,  so  that  I cannot  be  at 
your  rooms  till  about  four.” 

Her  face  clouded. 

“ Something  to  do  in  town!  ’ she  echoed,  watching  him 
narrowly,  and  noting  the  expression  into  which  his  face 
had  set  during  the  last  few  minutes.  “Is  it— to  see  some 
one,  Harry?”  she  asked  timidly. 

“ Yes,  a business  appointment.” 

“ Oh,  Harry,  it  is  to  see  Stephen,  I know ! What  are  you 
going  to  do?  What  are  you  going  to  say?  You  look  as  if 
you  would  kill  him !” 

“ Don’t  be  afraid.  How  could  I condescend  to  touch  the 
little  misshapen  wretch,  who  has  not  as  much  strength  in 
his  whole  body  as  I have  in  one  finger?  But  I am  going  to 
see  him,  and  to-day.” 

She  saw  that  it  was  impossible  to  alter  her  husband’s 
resolutions,  so  she  desisted  from  her  persuasions ; but  there 
was  a terrible  fear  at  her  heart  which  she  could  not  shake 
off.  She  knew  the  violence  of  her  husband’s  temper,  and 
feared  it  all  the  more  under  this  new  aspect  of  repression. 
She  made  up  her  mind  to  go  to  Stephen  and  warn  him  of 
Harry’s  coming,  and  to  beg  him  not  to  exasperate  her  bus 
band  further  by  any  attempt  at  concealment  and  false  ex- 
cuses, but  to  make  a frank  confession,  such  as  would,  she 
felt  sure,  be  more  likely  than  anything  else  to  avert 
Harry’s  anger.  Once  resolved  on  this  course,  she  let  the 
conversation  turn  to  indifferent  subjects,  and  it  was  not 
until  breakfast  was  nearly  over  that  she  pretended  to  re- 
member an  appointment  with  her  dressmaker  which  would 
make  it  necessary  for  her  to  go  up  to  town  before  lunch- 
eon. She  did  it  too  naturally  to  excite  in  her  husband 
any  suspicions  of  her  good  faith,  and  he  went  to  the  sta- 
tion with  her,  and  parted  with  her  very  reluctantly,  al- 
though he  expected  to  be  with  her  again  in  a few  hours. 

Annie  herself  felt  something  more  than  reluctance;  she 
was  seized  with  a foreboding  of  evil. 

“Ah,  Harry,”  she  said,  laying  a trembling  hand  upon 
his  arm,  “ I wish  I were  not  married  to  you !” 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


233 


“ Why?”  asked  he,  startled. 

“ Because  then  perhaps  you  might  do  what  you  did  long 
ago,  fling  all  considerations  of  business  and  duty  to  tho 
winds  and  jump  into  the  train  with  me.” 

“Do  you  think  my  love  was  better  worth  having  then 
than  now?’ ’lie  asked  softly. 

“ N-o,  perhaps  not.  Still  I wish  the  wife  had  as  much 
influence  as  the  girl  had.” 

If  the  train  had  been  in  the  station,  she  in  it,  and  he  at 
the  door,  these  words  would  have  carried  him  off.  As  it 
was,  standing  on  the  platform  beside  her,  Harry  was 
seized  with  a great  trembling,  and,  walking  away  from 
her  a few  steps,  he  came  back  and  said  to  her,  low  and  re- 
proachfully : 

“ That  is  the  first  time  you  have  ever  tempted  me  to 
what  was  not  right,  Annie.  If  the  train  had  been  here, 
your  words  would  have  made  me  jump  in,  and,  for  the 
first  time  since  I have  had  work  to  do,  I should  have  neg- 
lected it— and  through  you.  I have  a lot  to  see  to  at  the 
stables  this  morning,  and  an  appointment  to  keep  with 
Captain  King  before  I go  up  to-  town.  But  I can’t  resist 
you ; so,  if  you  love  me,  Annie,  and  if  you  care  for  what 
people  think  of  me  and  say  of  me,  don’t  ask  me  again,  my 
darling,  for  I can’t  say  4 No  ’ to  you.” 

The  young  wife,  self-possessed  and  independent  as  she 
usually  was,  hung  her  head.  These  words  of  his,  inspir- 
ing in  her  a strong  feeling  of  respect,  did  much  to  restore 
her  confidence  in  his  self-command  when  dealing  with  his 
treacherous  cousin.  As  she  took  the  rebuke  silently, 
Harry  began  to  be  alarmed  at  the  effect  he  had  produced. 

“ You  are  not  angry  with  me,  are  you,  darling?  You 
look  as  if  I had  been  scolding  you,  as  if  we  had  changed 
places.  ” 

“Changed  places,  Harry!”  cried  she,  looking  up  in  as- 
tonishment. 

She  had  already  forgotten  the  long  period  during  which 
she  had  looked  upon  her  husband  as  a tiresome,  unreason- 
able child. 

“ Yes,  when  I was  getting  well  at  the  Grange  you  didn’t 
always  treat  me  with  proper  respect,  I fancy,”  said  he, 
flushing,  but  looking  down  into  her  eyes  rather  mischiev- 
ously. 

“ Oh,  ah — then  you  were  ill!”  she  said,  blushing  too. 

The  last  words  she  said  to  her  husband  as  the  train  went 
off  were: 

“Remember  you  are  not  to  be  with  me  later  than  four. 
Promise.” 

“All  right;  I promise.” 


234 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


And,  trying  to  look  as  if  her  mind  was  at  ease,  Annit 
gave  him  a last  smiling  “ Good  bye,”  as  the  train  started. 

On  arriving  in  town,  she  drove  straight  to  the  house 
where  Stephen  lodged,  and,  finding  that  he  was  out,  she 
sat  down  in  the  sitting-room  to  wait  for  him.  Long  ere 
this  an  explanation  of  the  cripple’s  cruel  and  deceitful  con- 
duct had  occurred  to  her,  and  it  seemed  more  and  more 
probable  to  her,  as  she  satin  the  shabby  sitting-room,  with 
its  low,  weather-stained  ceiling  and  ill-papered  walls.  Evi- 
dently the  money  wjiich  he  had  kept  back  from  her  he 
had  not  spent  upon  himself;  it  must  have  gone  where  her 
jewelry  had  gone,  and  Harry’s  flowers — to  Muriel  West. 
Annie  knew  well  to  what  depths  of  meanness  he  would  de- 
scend in  his  devotion  to  a woman,  for  she  remembered 
with  what  dogged  and  disinterested  fidelity  he  had  ful- 
filled every  command,  every  wish  of  his  cousin  Lilian  in 
the  old  days  at  the  Grange,  before  her  marriage  with  Mr. 
Falconer.  In  spite  of  her  contempt  for  a man  who  could 
stoop  to  such  acts,  Annie  was  touched  by  the  cripple’s  hap- 
less attachment,  and  a great  pity  filled  her  heart  as  she 
heard  the  slow  thud,  thud  of  his  crutch  upon  the  staircase. 
Her  compassion  deepened  when  the  door  opened  and 
Stephen  stood  before  her,  wild-eyed  and  pale  with  a pallor 
which  was  like  that  of  death.  She  sat  quite  still  for  an  in- 
stant, unable  to  speak,  unable  to  express  what  she  felt  at 
the  dreadful  change  in  his  appearance. 

But  when  she  rose  very  softly  and  held  out  a hand  to 
him,  she  discovered,  to  her  horror,  that  he  still  stared 
blankly  in  front  of  him,  making  no  sign.  He  did  not  see 
her. 

“Stephen,”  said  she,  in  a low  voice. 

He  started,  and  for  the  first  time  knew  that  he  was  not 
alone. 

“ Annie!”  he  said  apathetically.  “ It  is  you,  is  it?” 

With  mechanical  courtesy,  he  moved  forward  feebly 
and  offered  her  a chair;  but  she  took  his  hand  and  led 
him  very  gently  to  the  hard  little  sofa,  and  made  him 
sit  down  beside  her  there.  She  thought  the  feeling  which 
had  evidently  overmastered  him  must  be  remorse  for 
his  conduct  toward  her  and  her  husband,  and  she  tried 
to  think  of  the  sweetest  words  she  could  to  soothe  his  dis- 
tress. 

“ It  makes  me  very  unhappy  to  see  how  deeply  you  are 
suffering,”  said  she.  “ If  I had  known  you  would  feel  it 
so  much,  I would  have  come  before.” 

He  played  idly  with  his  crutch,  not  in  the  least  moved 
by  her  words. 

“ It  would  have  made  no  difference,”  said  he,  in  $ dqll, 

cold  tone. 


A VAGRANT  WIFE.  235 

11  Oh,  but  I think  it  would  ! I would  not  have  let  you 
think  so  much  about  it !” 

“How  could  you  help  that?”  said  he,  turning  upon  her 
his  lusterless  eyes.  “ I tell  you  I was  not  rich  enough,  and 
she  would  have  thrown  me  over  just  the  same!” 

Annie  started.  He  was  thinking  no  more  of  the  wrong 
he  had  done  her  than  if  it  had  been  a deed  of  a hundred 
years  back.  But  she  was  not  angry.  Her  pity  rose  higher 
than  ever  for  this  unhappy  man,  who  had  sacrificed  all, 
even  to  his  honesty,  for  the  sake  of  a woman  who  did  not 
care  a straw  for  him  now  that  she  had  got  from  him  all  he 
had  to  give. 

“Stephen,  I am  so  very,  very  sorry  for  you,”  said  she, 
in  a quivering  voice. 

“Are  you?”  said  he,  waking  for  an  instant  into  some- 
thing more  like  life.  “ And  yet — you  have  no  reason  to 
be.” 

A feeling  of  shame  seemed  for  the  first  time  to  come  over 
him  as  he  realized  whose  sympathy  it  was  that  was  offered 
him ; and  he  drew  his  hand  away  from  hers. 

“ Every  one  has  reason  to  be  sorry  for  any  one  else  who 
is  unhappy,”  said  she.  “ And  when  you  see  that  even  I 
can  feel  sympathy  with  you,  you  will  see  that  you  have 
friends  who  are  worth  living  for  yet.” 

“ Not  I,  not  I,”  murmured  he,  in  a broken  voice.  “ There 
is  nothing  left  for  me.  She  had  promised  to  marry  me — 
she  is  not  a lady  by  birth,  you  know,  and  I could  have 
made  her  one  by  position.  I would  have  worked  for  her 
— I have  worked  for  her— I have  done  more.  But  I used 
up  all  I had  too  fast — she  saw  I had  no  more ; she  said,  if 
she  married  me,  we  should  starve.  And  she  looked  at  me 
quite  coldly  with  her  beautiful  eyes,  and  said  she  was  not 
well-educated  enough  to  marry  a gentleman— a gentleman ! 
I,  a poor  cripple ! It  was  that — it  is  always  that ! There 
is  no  happiness,  no  love  for  me ; nothing  but  pity—  wretched, 
miserable,  scornful  pity,  that  stings  me  more  than  taunts, 
more  than  hatred.  She  pitied  me,  I dare  say,  and  laughed 
at  me,  and  let  me  go ;”  and  he  broke  down  into  incoherent 
words  and  sobbing. 

Annie  tried  bright  words  of  encouragement,  asked  him 
if  he  thought  nothing  of  her  friendship,  of  that  of  the 
rest  of  his  family ; but  she  spoke  to  deaf  ears.  When  at 
length  she  rose  to  go,  he  gave  her  his  hand  and  said,  but 
still  coldly : 

“ Thank  you.  I shall  be  glad  presently  that  you  came. 
It  was  good  of  you  to  come — generous— and  I thank  you. 
If  I had  a long  life  before  me,  I would  try  to  do  you  some 
service ; but  I am  played  out  now,  and  there  is  not  much 
of  my  life  left  to  run.  Good-bye,  Annie.” 


236 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


She  could  not  stay.  His  last  words  were  almost  a Com- 
mand to  go.  She  had  not  mentioned  her  husband’s  name. 
She  thought  that,  in  the  state  of  mind  in  which  she  was 
leaving  the  cripple,  the  dread  of  an  angry  visitor  might 
make  him  desperate ; and  she  knew  very  well  that,  when 
Harry  saw  the  miserable  condition  to  which  his  sensitive 
cousin  was  reduced,  he  was  no  more  likely  to  be  unmerci- 
ful than  she  had  been. 

But  she  could  not  shake  off  a foreboding  that  the  meeting 
between  the  cousins  would  be  productive  of  evil,  and  she 
reached  home  anxious  and  thoughtful. 

Her  misgivings  were  not  without  foundation. 

Within  an  hour  of  her  departure  from  Stephen’s  lodg- 
ing, Harry  drove  up  in  a hansom  and  was  directed,  as 
his  wife  had  been,  to  the  little  room  on  the  top  floor.  He 
entered  with  a very  stern  face  and  firm  tread ; but  the 
sight  of  the  cripple,  lying  half  on  the  sofa,  half  on  a chair, 
in  a state  of  utter  prostration  of  body  and  mind,  made  him 
pause.  The  other  looked  up  at  him  without  fear,  without 
feeling  of  any  kind. 

4 4 Do  you  know  me?”  asked  Harry,  abruptly. 

“Yes;  what  do  you  want  here?” 

“ I want  an  explanation.  If  you  do  not  feel  fit  to  give  it 
to  me  now,  I will  come  again.  But  I must  have  it,  and 
the  less  delay  the  better.” 

“ Ask  your  wife,  then.  She  has  a better  head  than  you, 
and  understands  without  so  much  talking.  Go  to  her  for 
your  explanations,  and  leave  me  in  peace.” 

“ Not  yet.  I want  some  reason  for  your  stopping  my  let- 
ters to  her  and  her  letters  to  me,  for  taking  the  presents 
we  intrusted  to  your  care  to  be  given  to  each  other,  and  for 
giving  her  money,  my  flowers,  and  even  her  jewelry  to  a 
greedy,  extravagant,  worthless  woman  whom  you  couldn’t 
satisfy  if  you  had  gold  mines  to  give  her.  That  is  what  I 
want  you  to  answer.” 

The  cripple  had  raised  himself,  his  eyes  glittering  with 
fury,  and  he  sat  frowning  maliciously  at  his  cousin  until 
the  latter  had  finished  his  speech. 

“ Then  I won’t  answer  you,  except  to  say  this;  you  are 
very  good  now,  and  look  upon  extravagance  and  waste  as 
very  wicked  things.  But  you  haven’t  been  a saint  so  very 
long  that  you  can  have  forgotten  that  you  yourself  were 
as  greedy  and  worthless  as  any  one  I knew  once,  and  that 
you  forged  your  father’s  name  to  supply  your  own  ex- 
travagance, which,  it  seems  to  me,  is  worse  than  to  stoop 
to  meanness  for  the  sake  of  a woman  you  love  and  for 
whom  you  would  die.” 

The  last  words  he  spoke  in  a low  voice,  looking  straight 
in  front  of  him  with  his  glittering,  feverish  eyes ; and  his 


A VAGRANT  WIFE.  287 

hand  moved  restlessly  toward  his  coat- pocket  as  he  fin- 
ished speaking. 

“Look  here!”  said  Harry,  in  a softer  voice.  “I  don’t 
want  to  be  hard  on  you.  I know  I’ve  done  as  bad  things 
myself,  if  not  worse;  and,  if  I’m  a saint  now,  it’s  the  first 
I’ve  heard  of  it.  But,  if  you’re  so  fond  of  this  woman  as 
you  say,  I wonder  how  you  could  have  the  heart  to  play 
Blich  confoundedly  nasty  tricks  with  the  love  of  another 
man,  and  to  such  an  angel  as  Annie,  who  had  always  been 
kind  to  you  too?” 

“Your  love?  Your  love  was  nothing  to  mine !”  Stephen 
burst  out,  contemptuously.  “ A woman  may  have  a place 
in  your  heart;  but  your  dogs  and  your  horses  fill  the  rest 
of  it.  You  are  handsome,  straight;  if  one  woman  will  not 
smile  on  you,  another  will;  while  I,  who  love  sweet  eyes 
and  fair  faces  with  a passion  you  cannot  dream  of,  can 
only  buy  kindness  from  a woman  by  the  ceaseless  labor  of 
ministering  to  all  her  wants,  all  her  caprices;  and  then, 
when  at  last  the  time  comes  when  I can  give  no  more,  I 
am  cast  aside  and  forgotten  for— for  one  of  your  sort,  with 
a pair  of  blue  eyes  that  say  nothing,  and  a head  that  can’t 
put  two  ideas  together.  ” 

The  passionate  bitterness  of  this  speech  moved  Harry. 

“It— it  is  rough  on  a fellow,”  he  murmured,  in  a low, 
gruff  voice. 

But  the  pity  in  his  tone  woke  the  wretched  man  before 
him  to  frenzy. 

“ You  can  spare  me  your  pity,”  said  he,  fiercely.  “All 
our  lives  through  you  have  got  easily  what  I might  work 
myself  to  death  for,  and  never  get,  after  all.  You  always 
got  enjoyment,  admiration,  love;  and,  now  you  have 
sobered  down,  you  get  respect,  success,  money.  If  you 
had  been  in  my  place,  Muriel  would  never  have  thrown 
you  over.  She  had  seen  you  only  once,  at  a supper- party, 
months  ago,  at  Beckham.  Yet,  when  I met  her  in  Lon- 
don, she  remembered  your  stupid,  red  face,  and  sent  you 
messages  which  I took  care  not  to  give  you.  But  I will  be 
even  with  you  at  last ; the  remedy  I prepared  for  my  own 
wrongs  will  do  as  well  for  yours.” 

And  Stephen  drew  out  from  his  breast,  where  his  hand 
had  been  hidden  for  some  minutes,  a revolver,  and,  aim- 
ing before  the  other  had  time  to  realize  his  intention,  fired 
it  at  his  cousin. 

* * * * * * * 

Four  o’clock  came,  and  still  Annie  waited  for  her  hus- 
band. He  had  promised  so  seriously,  so  many  times,  not 
to  be  later  than  that  hour  that  her  impatience  grew  quickly 
into  anxiety  as  the  time  passed  and  still  he  did  not  appear. 
At  half  past  four,  just  as  she  was  deciding  that  she  could 


A VAGRANT  WIFE. 


wait  no  longer,  that  she  must  go  to  Stephen’s  lodging  arid 
find  out  what  had  detained  him,  she  heard  a knock  at  the 
door,  which,  however,  she  recognized,  to  her  bitter  disap- 
pointment, not  as  Harry’s  but  George’s.  He  had  brought 
William  to  see  her,  that  young  soldier  having  just  ar- 
rived in  town,  and  being  mad  to  have  a glimpse  of  his  old 
play-fellow,  and  tell  her  how  well  he  was  getting  on  in  his 
profession. 

Poor  Annie  could  give  but  a mechanical  show  of  interest 
to  the  young  fellow’s  eager  outpourings,  and  at  last  she 
broke  down. 

“William,  I cannot  listen  now,”  she  said,  with  tears  in 
her  eyes.  “ You  know  it  is  not  for  lack  of  interest; 

but George,”  she  cried  suddenly,  turning  to  her  elder 

brother-in-law,  “ Harry  has  gone  to  see  Stephen,  angrier 
than  I ever  saw  him  before.  I can’t  tell  you  why  now. 
But  Harry  and  I are  reconciled.  It  seems  you  knew  all 
about  his  being  at  Kirby  Park.  You  might  have  told  me! 
And  he  promised  to  be  with  me  at  four  o’clock,”  she  went 
on,  growing  more  and  more  excited  and  incoherent. 
“ You  see  it  is  a quarter  to  five,  and  he  is  not  here!  He 
was  very  angry ; and  I am  afraid  something  has  happened. 
I must  go  and  see !” 

There  was  no  restraining  her.  In  ten  minutes  they  were 
all  three  on  the  way  to  Stephen’s  lodging.  As  they  ap- 
proached the  house,  George  caught  sight  of  something 
from  the  cab-window  which  made  him  turn  suddenly  to 
his  sister-in  law  and  advise  her  to  return  while  he  went  in 
and  spoke  to  Harry. 

She  saw  the  alarm  in  his  eyes,  and,  steadying  herself  to 
speak  calmly,  she  refused.  So  the  cab  stopped;  and  then 
Annie  saw  that  there  was  a rough  crowd  outside  the  house 
and  a policeman  keeping  the  people  away  from  the  door. 
George  sprung  out ; but  she  followed  so  closely  behind  him 
that  she  caught  the  policeman’s  answer  to  his  low-voiced 
question : 

“ What  is  the  matter?” 

“Man  shot,  I believe,  sir.” 

Annie  kept  quite  still,  quite  calm,  while  George  induced 
the  policeman  to  let  them  pass  in;  and,  as  soon  as  the  door 
was  opened,  she  slipped  past  her  brother-in-law,  who  had 
not  known  she  was  so  close,  and  flew  first  up  the  stairs, 
swiftly  and  silently  as  a bird. 

“ He  has  broken  his  word  to  me,”  she  thought  in  agony, 

“ He  has  scattered  all  our  happiness;  and  now Oh, 

where  is  he?  I dare  not  go  in!  Perhaps  already  they 
have  led  him  away  to— prison.  Oh,  Harry,  Harry !” 

She  was  standing  outside  the  door  of  the  sitting  room, 
which  was  shut.  She  seemed  to  hear  a noise  of  low  voices : 


A VAGRANT  *WIFEt 


289 


but  she  was  not  sure  that  it  was  not  the  singing  in  her 
own  ears.  At  last,  with  cold,  weak  fingers,  she  turned  the 
handle  and  went  in. 

The  only  figure  in  the  room  was  that  of  the  cripple,  lying 
motionless  on  the  sofa. 

Brought  thus  abruptly  into  what  she  believed  to  be  the 
presence  of  a dead  man,  Annie  tottered  to  the  table  for 
support,  her  face  white  and  damp  with  horror ; but  Stephen 
turned,  raised  his  head  and  confronted  her;  and  she  gave 
a low  cry  of  relief  when  she  saw  that  he  was  alive. 

“Then  Harry  has  not  hurt  you?”  she  whispered  falter-  i 
ingly. 

“ No,”  said  the  cripple,  44  it  was  not  he.  You  will  never 
forgive  me,  Annie ; you  will  hate  me.  I shot  him !” 

Annie  did  not  cry  this  time,  did  not  even  start;  she  stood 
tapping  with  her  fingers  upon  the  table,  struck  suddenly 
into  utter  numbness.  She  did  not  feel  his  trembling  hands 
clinging  to  her  mantle  as  he  fell  at  her  feet  and  implored 
her  to  speak  to  him,  to  scold  him,  and  not  to  stand  before 
him  as  if  his  words  had  killed  her.  She  did  not  hear  the 
door  of  the  bedroom  open  or  feel  the  touch  of  a stranger’s 
hand.  But  the  new-comer  was  a doctor;  and,  when  she 
woke  presently  from  the  sort  of  stupor  which  had  seized 
her,  he  said,  quietly : 

“Now,  Mrs.  Braithwaite,  if  you  will  remain  calm,  you 
shall  see  your  husband.” 

“ I am  calm,”  she  said,  simply. 

She  could  not  have  cried,  or  moaned,  or  lamented  her 
fate,  if  her  life  had  depended  upon  her  showing  some  emo- 
tion. 

So  he  led  her  into  the  next  room ; and  there,  not  dead, 
but  sitting  in  a faded  chintz  armchair,  with  his  left  arm 
bound  up,  was  Harry.  It  was  then  that  her  calmness  gave 
way.  She  was  not  very  demonstrative  indeed  over  the 
passion  of  joy  which  lit  up  and  transfigured  her  whole 
face ; but  she  fell  upon  her  knees  by  the  side  of  his  chair, 
shaking  from  head  to  feet. 

“ I thought — you  were — killed !”  whispered  she. 

“ Why,  my  poor  darling,  who  told  you  so?”  he  asked, 
tenderly. 

“I  shall  never  forgive  Stephen!”  she  hissed,  clinching 
her  teeth. 

4 4 Yes,  you  will,  Annie.  He  is  to  be  pitied,  not  I— only  we 
musn’t  tell  him  that.  He  hasn’t  even  hurt  me  much — the 
arm  is  not  broken ; the  only  danger  possible  to  me  through 
it  was  loss  of  blood ; and,  if  I keep  quiet,  I shall  be  all  right 
again  in  no  time.  Is  that  George’s  voice  I hear  in  thq 
next  room?” 

44  Yes;  he  came  with  me  and  William,” 


240 


rA  VA&RANT  WIFE . 


“I  must  get  William  to  come  down  with  me  to  Kirby 
Park  for  a day  or  two  till  I can  ride  again.  He’ll  be  very 
glad  to  come  and  I to  have  him.  If  I had  to  stay  indoors 
alone,  I think  I should  throw  myself  off  the  roof.” 

“ Oh,  Harry,  won’t  you  have  me?”  Annie  asked,  in  piti- 
ful entreaty. 

“ Why,  how  can  I,  my  darling?  1 know  you  won’t 
break  your  engagement  at  the  theater.” 

“No;  but  I’ll  go  down  to  Kirby  Park  every  night  after 
the  performance,  and  come  back  each  evening  in  time  to 
dress  for  the  theater.” 

“ But  won’t  that  tire  you  too  much,  Annie?  It  is  more 
than  an  hour’s  journey  by  train,”  he  said;  but  his  eyes 
flashed  at  the  proposal. 

“Why,”  said  Annie,  shyly,  laughing  a little,  “I  wanted 
to  do  so  all  the  time.  I thought  of  it  yesterday ; but  then 
I decided  to  wait  until  you  asked  me;  and,  after  all,”  she 
added,  with  mock  petulance.  “I’ve  had  to  ask  myself.” 

So  that  night,  after  the  performance,  Annie,  escorted  by 
George,  who  had  made  what  excuses  he  could  for  not  hav- 
ing revealed  to  her  that  he  had  heard  of  Harry’s  residence 
at  Kirby  Park,  drove  to  Waterloo,  where  she  found  Will- 
iam and  her  husband.  The  three  went  down  to  Kirby 
Park  together  by  the  last  train,  very  tired,  especially 
Annie,  but  very  happy. 

The  next  day  she  and  William  had  a walk  together, 
while  Harry  was  holding  a business  interview  in  the  li- 
brary ; but  William  found  that  it  was  not  quite  like  the 
old  time  at  the  Grange. 

“ Hasn’t  it  improved  Harry  to  have  something  to  do?” 
said  the  young  wife  proudly. 

“Oh,  he’s  well  enough!”  said  William,  without  enthu- 
siasm. “But  there’s  a sad  falling  off  in  you,  Annie. 
You’re  quite  spoiled  for  a sister-in-law.  Why,  now,  when 
anything  amuses  you,  you  look  first  at  Harry!” 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

More  than  six  years  have  passed  since  the  night  when 
Annie  returned  with  her  husband  to  Kirby  Park,  and  there 
are  Braith waites  once  more  at  Garstone  Grange.  For 
Harry,  with  a wise  and  loving  wife  at  his  side  to  comfort 
him  in  failure,  encourage  him  in  effort,  and  rejoice  with 
him  in  success,  has  worked  on  in  the  career  best  suited  to 
him  and  prospered,  while  she  too,  has  striven  successfully 
4n  her  profession  until  the  time  has  come  on  which  the 
hopes  of  both  have  for  years  been  fixed,  and  they  have 
bought  back  the  old  home  of  Harry’s  boyhood,  where  alsg 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 241 

so  many  of  the  stormy  events  of  their  early  wedded  life 
took  place. 

It  is  Christmas  time,  their  first  Christmas  since  their 
return  to  the  Grange ; and  Annie  and  her  husband  are  ex- 
pecting some  welcome  guests  to  celebrate  this  event  and 
Annie’s  final  renunciation  of  her  ambition  for  that  entire 
devotion  to  home  and  husband  which  has  now  become  her 
chief  delight.  For  Annie  has  left  the  stage,  with  its  strug- 
gles, its  failures,  and  its  triumphs,  forever,  not  without 
some  regrets  at  bidding  farewell  to  old  friends,  old  usages, 
and  a life  which  had  had  many  pleasures  for  her;  but  with 
new  happiness  in  the  thought  that  she  can  now  devote 
herself  more  entirely  than  before  to  the  husband  and  chil- 
dren in  whom  all  her  affection  is  centered.  For  in  the  long, 
dim  picture-gallery  where  Harry  saw  the  demure  little 
governess  playing  battledoor  and  shuttlecock  years  ago 
two  fair-haired  boys  are  laughing  and  shouting  at  play. 
Their  father  is  rather  disappointed  that  they  have  his  own 
blue  eyes  and  curly,  fair  hair,  and  he  is  in  great  anxiety 
lest  they  should  grow  up  like  him  in  mind,  instead  of  being 
“ clever” like  their  mother;  but  Annie  is  troubled  with  no 
such  fears,  and  is  quite  contented  with  her  boys  as  they 
are. 

Two  more  Braith  waites  lie  in  the  family  vault  in  Gar- 
stone  Churchyard.  The  first  to  go  to  his  rest  was  Stephen, 
who  lived  but  very  few  months  after  that  miserable  scene 
in  which  he  shot  his  cousin  in  his  desperate  wretchedness. 
Those  months  were  the  most  peaceful  of  his  unhappy  life, 
for  he  passed  them  at  Kirby  Park,  to  which  Annie  had 
herself  gently  persuaded  him  to  come.  She  never  wearied 
in  her  patient  devotion  to  him,  in  her  attention  to  his 
wants,  in  her  bright  endeavors  to  amuse  and  please  him. 
Harry  seconded  her  efforts  with  gentleness  which  was 
touching  in  the  big,  strong  man ; and  the  cripple’s  feelings 
were  too  strong  and  his  penetration  too  keen  for  him  not 
to  appreciate  rightly  every  kind  act  and  tone  in  the  people 
about  him. 

Wilfred  lies  in  the  vault  too;  he  was  killed  by  a fall 
from  his  horse  in  the  hunting-field  in  the  winter  following 
the  sale  of  the  Grange,  and  they  buried  him  beside  his 
father  and  cousin. 

A better  fate  is  in  store  for  the  youngest  brother,  Will- 
iam. “The  child”  is  now  Captain  Braith waite,  and  his 
letters  to  Garstone  are  full  of  references  to  the  loveliest  girl 
that  ever  was  seen  and  mysterious  hints  that  he  has  a sur- 

Erise  in  store  for  them— from  which  and  a certain  inco- 
erency  of  style  in  his  letters  Annie  does  not  need  much 
penetration  to  decide  that  he  is  going  to  be  married. 

Sir  George  passes  most  of  the  year  in  chambers  in  town, 


242 


A VAGRANT  WIFE . 


and  has  never  found  the  courage  to  begin  a new  battle 
with  fate;  he  is  still  unmarried,  and  there  seems  every 
probability  that  the  title  will  pass  in  course  of  time  to 
Harry  and  his  eldest  son. 

He  and  William  are  now  at  the  Grange  to  spend  Christ- 
mas with  Harry  and  his  wife;  they  are  all  expecting  two 
other  guests,  for  whom  the  warmest  welcome  of  all  has 
been  prepared.  Lady  Braithwaite,  growing  old  now,  and 
reconciled  to  her  daughter-in  law  at  last,  is  about  to  return 
to  the  home  where  her  wedded  life  was  passed,  never  t > 
leave  it  again  until  the  time  comes  for  her  too  to  sleep 
peacefully  by  her  husband’s  side  in  Garstone  Churchyard ; 
and  Lilian  is  coming  with  her  to  spend  a week  at  the  old 
home. 

The  winter  sun  is  setting  when  Annie,  on  the  alert  for  the 
sound  of  wheels,  starts  up  from  her  seat  in  the  morning- 
room  and  goes  out  on  to  the  doorstep  with  William  and 
George  to  receive  Lady  Braithwaite  and  her  daughter, 
whom  Harry  had  gone  to  meet  at  Beckham  Station. 
Harry,  who  jumps  out  of  the  carriage  first,  gives  way  to 
his  elder  brother,  and  it  is  on  Sir  George’s  arm  that  the 
stately  old  lady  leans  as  she  steps  down  from  the  carriage 
and  meets  her  daughter-in-law.  Lilian  follows.  She  is 
thin  and  pale,  and  looks  much  older  than  Annie,  who  has 
recovered  almost  all  the  beauty  of  the  shy  little  governess 
of  eighteen  who  first  attracted  the  attention  of  the  wild 
Grange  boys  more  than  ten  years  ago.  Lilian’s  love  of 
excitement  and  pleasure  has  told  upon  her  health ; she  is 
not  exactly  an  unhappy  woman  or  an  unloving  wife ; but 
her  passionate  nature  has  found  something  wanting  in  life, 
and  in  the  eagerness  of  a vain  search  for  it  she  has  grown 
old  before  her  time. 

When  they  are  all  together  in  the  drawing-room  after 
dinner,  and  the  little  boys,  having  begun  to  make  them- 
selves obnoxious  by  playing  at  ball  over  their  grand- 
mother’s head,  have  been  kissed  and  sent  to  bed,  the  talk 
turns  to  town  and  what  is  going  on  there. 

“ Oh,  Annie,  have  you  heard  of  the  success  of  your  old 
friend  Aubrey  Cooke?”  asks  Lilian.  “ I went  to  see  him 
in  this  new  piece  in  which  they  say  he  is  so  good,  and  I 
never  felt  myself  so  entirely  carried  away  by  any  acting 
before.  Everybody  says  he  will  be  the  greatest  actor  of 
the  day.” 

“Ah,  I thought  I was  going  to  be  the  greatest  actress 
once!”  Annie  says,  rather  slowly. 

“ Then  he  has  fulfilled  his  ambition,  and  you  have  given 
up  yours  unfulfilled.  Don’t  you  regret  it  just  a little? 
.Come— be  candid !” 

Lilian  speaks  in  a low  voice,  meant  only  for  her  sister- 


> A VAGRANT  WIFE.  243 

in-law’s  ear.  Annie  hesitates,  looking  down  at  the  fire  with 
an  expression  which  it  is  not  easy  to  read. 

She  is  startled  by  finding  her  husband’s  hand  laid  quietly 
on  her  shoulder.  He  has  overheard  these  last  words  of 
Lilian’s,  notices  his  wife’s  reluctance  to  answer,  and  leaves 
his  seat  to  speak  to  her. 

‘ ‘ Are  you  sorry  you  are  not  the  wife  of  a great  actor  in- 
stead of  a plain  country  gentleman,  Annie?” 

“ No,  not  in  the  least;  I never  thought  of  such  a thing.” 
“ Then  why  are  you  looking  so  thoughtful?” 

“Any  news  of  people  one  has  known  well  and  lost  sight 
of  sets  one  thinking.”” 

“ I could  give  you  some  more  news  of  him  but  that  I am 
afraid  it  would  make  you  sad.” 

“ Never  mind ; I should  like  to  hear  it.  Go  on.” 

“ His  home-life  is  a very  unhappy  one.  They  say  he  ill- 
treats  his  wife;  I know  they  are  never  seen  together. 
George  told  me  all  about  it  yesterday ; but  I did  not  tell 
you,  because  I knew  it  would  pain  you.  However,  it  is 
something  for  him  to  have  satisfied  his  ambition,  and  you 
see  he  has  done  that.” 

“ While  I have  let  mine  go ” 

“Just  to  settle  down  into  a mere  quiet  wife  and  mother. 
Is  that  what  you  are  thinking?  Do  you  regret  it,  Annie?” 
She  turns  her  soft,  dark  eyes,  bright  in  the  glow  of  the 
firelight,  toward  him,  with  her  head  raised  proudly. 

“ No,  no:  I have  never  regretted  it— I never  shall.  My 
ambition  was  very  strong,  but  I did  not  throw  it  away ; I 
kept  it  and  clung  to  it  until  it  was  swallowed  up  in  some- 
thing stronger  still;  and  I think  you  can  guess  what  that 
is.” 

Talk  and  laughter  are  going  on  brightly  round  them 
among  the  members  of  the  reunited  family  gathered  round 
the  glowing  fire.  Harry  does  not  answer  his  wife  in 
words ; but  the  firm  pressure  of  his  hand  as  it  clasps  hers 
unseen  by  the  rest  tells  her  that  he  understands  that  the 
passion  which  had  absorbed  all  others  in  the  brilliant  act- 
ress and  the  true-hearted  woman  is  her  love  for  him. 


[THE  END.] 


DAISY  DARRELL 


By  LAURA  G FORD 


Copyrighted  by  NORMAN  L.  MUNRO,  1885. 


CHAPTER  I. 

“some  day  the  tables  will  turn.” 

Pinelands,  the  country  residence  of  Colonel  James  Fitz- 
gerald, was  ablaze  with  light  without  and  within. 

Gleaming  chandeliers  hung  from  the  ceiling  of  the 
stately  halls  and  parlors;  and  gleaming  lanterns  hung 
from  the  branches  of  the  great,  somber  pines  on  the  lawn. 

It  was  a fete  given  in  honor  of  the  twenty-first  birthday 
of  Miss  Geraldine  Fitzgerald,  the  sole  daughter  of  the 
house,  and  the  acknowledged  beauty  of  the  country  for 
miles  and  miles  around  Pinelands. 

Her  father,  a widower,  who  was  still  a handsome  and 
comparatively  young  man,  being  on  the  sunny  side  of 
forty -five,  was  exceedingly  proud  of  her,  as  he  was  also  of 
his  only  other  child,  a son  of  fifteen  years  of  age,  who  an- 
swered to  the  name  of  Harry. 

It  was  early  in  the  evening,  and  the  guests  had  not  be- 
gun yet  to  arrive,  and  Miss  Fitzgerald’s  toilet  was  not 
quite  completed. 

She  was  seated  before  a large  mirror  in  her  room,  and 
her  lustrous  black  eyes  often  turned  to  catch  the  pleasing 
reflection  of  herself,  while  her  glistening  black  hair  was 
being  arranged  by  a girl  who  was  in  many  respects  the 
opposite  of  herself.  This  girl  was  in  age  about  sixteen 
years. 

Her  name  was  Daisy  Darrell . 

She  was  small  and  plump,  and  comical  dimples  came 
into  her  round  cheeks  as  she  puckered  her  lips.  She  was 
blue-eyed,  and  flaxen-haired,  and  she,  too,  was  exquisitely 
beautiful. 

But  the  blue  eyes  had  a steely  glitter  in  them,  and  the 


Daisy  darreld 


delicate  sea-shell  complexion  was  dashed  with  red,  and  her 
arched  brows  were  drawn  in  a way  suggestive  of  anger. 

The  slender  fingers  trembled  also,  as  if  with  the  power 
of  some  inward  tumult,  which  caused  them  to  be  some- 
what ungentle  in  their  touch,  perhaps,  on  the  long,  black 
hair,  for  Miss  Fitzgerald  suddenly  Knotted  her  face  and 
spoke  sharply : 

“ Be  more  careful,  Daisy.  You  tug  at  my  hair  as  if  you 
were  twisting  a rope.” 

The  color  deepened  on  Daisy  Darrell’s  face,  and  she 
caught  her  under  lip  in  an  ill-natured  grimace  between  her 
small  white  teeth,  but  she  uttered  not  a word  in  response. 
Yet  her  hands  ceased  their  nervous  haste,  and  she  com- 
pleted the  arrangement  of  the  beauty’s  hair  without  calling 
forth  any  further  reproof. 

She  also  deftly  laced  on  the  white  satin  dress,  which  so 
perfectly  fitted  the  faultless  figure,  and  then  fastened  the 
scarlet  blossoms  in  the  jet-black  hair  and  at  the  graceful 
throat,  and  then  she  folded  her  arms  and  stood  aside  with 
childish  disdain.  Geraldine  Fitzgerald,  gleaming  in  satin, 
and  glittering  in  diamonds,  surveyed  herself  in  the  mirror. 

She  was  intensely  vain,  as  was  evinced  by  the  proud 
consciousness  of  her  look,  and  by  a question  she  put  to 
Daisy  Darrell. 

“ Did  you  ever  see  me  look  more  beautiful  than  I do  to- 
night, Daisy  Darrell  ?” 

“You  would  be  a very  ugly  woman  if  that  costume  did 
not  make  you  look  handsome,”  the  girl  retorted  sharply. 
“Dress  is  everything — even  1 would  be  presentable  if  I 
was  fixed  up  in  that  style !” 

There  was  an  unmistakable  ring  of  discontent  and  .of 
envy  in  her  voice,  which  Miss  Fitzgerald  must  havo 
noticed,  for  she  said  contemptuously,  turning  herself  be- 
fore the  mirror,  and  shaking  out  the  folds  of  her  snowy 
robe: 

“ I expect  you  will  always  have  to  depend  on  your  im- 
agination as  to  how  you  will  look  in  a costume  like  this, 
as  it  isn’t  at  all  probable  that  you  will  ever  appear  in  such 
an  one.  Poor  people  don’t  usually  appear  in  such  dresses, 
even  when  their  rich  relations  are  generous  enough  to  give 
them  a home  and  provide  for  them,  as  my  father  does  for 
you.  And  you  are  by  no  means  as  grateful  as  you  should 
be  for  the  favor.” 

The  last  sentence  was  spoken  in  a tone  of  great  dignity 
and  severity,  and  having  uttered  it,  Miss  Geraldine  Fitz- 
gerald caught  up  her  fan  and  lace  handkerchief  from  the 
marble  slab  of  the  dresser,  and  hurried  out  of  the  room- 
hearing  the  roll  of  carriage  wheels  on  the  drive  outside^ 
announcing  the  arrival  of  the  first  guests. 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


3 


Left  alone,  Daisy  Darrell  flung  herself  into  a chair  and 
burst  into  a passion  of  tears,  muttering  spitefully  between 
her  sobs,  like  a vexed  child : 

4kNot  as  grateful  as  I should  be  for  the  favor,  ain’t  I? 
No— I am  not  grateful — not  the  least  bit  in  the  world — for 
the  privilege  of  being  your  servant*  Geraldine  Fitzgerald ; 
of  coming  at  your  call,  and  going  at  your  beck ! It  is  very 
generous,  forsooth,  in  your  father  to  give  food  and  shelter 
to  his  sister’s  orphan  child — and  to  shut  his  eyes  to  the 
fact  that  she  never  appears  in  the  parlor,  is  never  presented 
to  his  daughter’s  guests  as  her  kinswoman  and  equal  in 
blood!  No;  I am  not  grateful  for  that  favor,  Geraldine 
Fitzgerald.  In  fact,  I am  very  ungrateful  for  such  at- 
tentions as  I receive  in  this  house,  as  you  may  find  some 
day,  my  haughty  cousin  ! Some  day  the  tables  will  turn!” 

She  uttered  the  prophecy  with  clinched  hands  and  teeth, 
and  through  a paroxysm  of  tears. 

Daisy  Darrell  was  not  bad  at  heart— she  was  not  even 
unamiable,  but  at  that  moment  all  the  evil  of  her  nature 
had  come  to  the  surface,  for  she  was  a young  girl,  and 
there  was  a ball  in  the  house,  the  gayety  of  which  she  was 
permitted  only  to  see  and  to  hear  from  a distance,  but  by 
no  means  to  enter  into. 

The  first  strains  of  music  floated  up  to  her,  and  she 
sprung  to  her  feet. 

‘ 4 Oh,  when  my  day  does  come ! when  the  tables  do  turn  P 
she  aspirated. 

And  then  she  dried  her  eyes  on  her  white  muslin  sleeve, 
and  went  from  the  room  and  from  the  house. 

She  stole  to  an  open  window  and  halted  under  a pine 
tree  whose  solemn  branches  drooped  protectingly  over 
her. 

Standing  there,  obscured  by  trailing  vines,  Daisy  Darrell 
peered  in  through  the  lace  curtains  on  the  ball. 

It  was  a brilliant  scene  over  which  the  chandelier  poured 
a flood  of  golden  light.  There  were  gleaming  silks  and 
glittering  jewels ; there  were  bright  faces  and  sparkling 
eyes ; there  were  strains  of  seductive  music,  and  there  was 
the  fall  of  glancing  feet  keeping  time  to  it  as  the  dancers 
floated  and  wheeled  gracefully  to  and  fro. 

Daisy  Darrell’s  lips  parted  and  her  breath  came  flutter' 
ingly  through  them.  Unconsciously  her  own  feet  moved 
on  the  dew-damp  grass,  keeping  time  to  the  music. 

A couple — by  far  the  most  graceful  of  all  that  graceful 
throng — floated  near  to  the  window  in  the  bewildering 
waltz,  and  they  caught  and  held  the  eyes  of  Daisy  Darrell. 

They  were  Geraldine  Fitzgerald  and  a tall,  handsome 
young  gentleman — and  Geraldine  was  looking  up  into  his 
eyes,  and  he  was  looking  down  into  her§? 


4 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


“I  wonder  who  he  is  ?”  Daisy  muttered,  the  light  dying 
out  of  her  face,  and  the  look  of  discontent  which  it  had 
worn  when  she  first  stole  to  the  spot  coming  into  it  again 
— “I  suppose  it  is  Clifford  Bancroft,  the  wealthy  New 
Yorker  she  met  at  Long  Branch  last  month,  and  whom 
shelias  been  raving  about  ever  since.” 

She  said  nothing  more,  but  the  look  of  discontent  no 
more  left  her  face  as  she  stood  there,  and  her  feet  no  longer 
kept  time  to  the  seductive  music. 

Her  bright  blue  eyes  watched  those  two  as  they  floated 
about  in  the  mazes  of  the  waltz,  and  she  noticed  with  grow- 
ing bitterness,  which  had  an  unacknowledged  touch  of 
envy  in  it,  that  the  dreamy  black  eyes  of  the  young  man 
looked  always  tenderly  down  into  the  lustrous  orbs  of  his 
beautiful  partner. 

“She  has  everything,”  Daisy  Darrell  said,  muttering 
the  words  through  her  small  teeth — “ pleasure,  and  money 
and  love,  and  I have  nothing — nothing!  I don’t  even 
have  the  life  of  a petted  spaniel ! No— I don’t !” 

Whereupon,  overcome  by  the  immensity  of  her  own 
desolation,  the  orphan  dropped  down  on  the  ground,  and 
hiding  her  face  m the  dew- wet  grass  she  began  to  sob 
bitterly. 

There  were  merry  voices  and  merry  laughter  floating 
constantly  through  the  open  windows,  but  she  heard  them 
in  a meaningless  way ; heard  them  as  she  did  the  sound  of 
the  wind  in  the  pine  branches  overhead,  without  paying 
any  heed  to  them.  So  she  was  not  aware  that  a step  was 
approaching  her ; she  did  not  notice  the  odor  of  the  fra- 
grant cigar  that  the  owner  of  the  step  was  smoking,  and 
she  started  up  with  a smothered  exclamation  as  the  coming 
feet  unconsciously  brushed  against  her.  A young  gentle- 
man, quite  as  much  surprised  at  the  encounter  as  herself 
evidently,  suddenly  halted  beside  her,  looking  down  at  her 
in  the  uncertain  light  with  startled  black  eyes. 

“I  beg  your  pardon,”  he  said  confusedly,  his  gentle 
manly  self-possession  being  completely  put  to  flight  by  the 
astonishment  at  her  unsuspected  presence,  “ I had  no  idea 
of  meeting  a young  lady  out  here.” 

“ I have  no  idea  that  youjdid,”  the  young  lady  responded, 
in  a half-defiant,  half -amused  tone,  “so  it  was  a waste 
of  breath  to  say  so.” 

She  had  arisen  with  a leap  to  her  feet,  and  stood  before 
him  looking  up  into  his  face  with  her  saucy  blue  eyes,  on 
the  lashes  of  which  two  drops  of  the  copious  tear-fall  she 
had  been  indulging  in  still  hung,  sparkling,  as  he  could  see 
by  the  light  of  the  lantern  swinging  from  the  tree  bough 
above  her,  like  fine  diamonds.  “And  I certainly  had  no 


DAISY  DARRELL*  5 

expectation  of  meeting  a young  gentleman  out  here,”  she 
added. 

He  smiled  slightly,  showing  a row  of  strong  white  teeth 
under  his  heavy  mustache,  and  dropping  his  cigar  to  lift 
the  tall  silk  hat  from  his  curling  black;  hair,  he  said : 

4 4 Permit  me  to  introduce  myself.  I am  Clifford  Ban- 
croft— a sort  of  a make-believe  lawyer  who  boasts  a pre- 
tentious sign,  and  an  unpretentious  practice  in  the  city  of 
New  York.  Will  you  honor  me  by  mentioning  your  own 
name  ?” 

44  NO,  I won’t,”  she  responded,  doggedly,  knitting  her 
low,  white  brow  petulantly.  44 1 am  much  less  pretentious 
than  your  practice,  however  humble  it  may  be,  and  it 
isn’t  any  use  to  tell  you  my  name — for  it  isn’t  likely  that 
you  will  ever  hear  it  again  from  the  lips  of  any  one  else.” 

There  was,  as  he  noticed,  a great  deal  of  bitterness  in 
her  fresh,  girlish  voice,  and  he  looked  steadily  down  into 
her  uplifted  face,  with  a world  of  curiosity  in  his  hand- 
some eyes. 

44  If  you  will  not  tell  me  your  name,  you  will  at  least  let 
me  conduct  you  into  the  parlor,  won’t  you?”  he  said; 44  the 
music  is  again  beginning.” 

In  the  radiance  coming  through  the  window  near  which 
they  were  standing,  and  from  the  Chinese  lanterns  swing- 
ing over  her  head,  Daisy  Darrell  directed  his  eyes  by  a gest- 
ure of  her  hand  to  the  crumpled  and  grass-stained  muslin 
dress. 

44  This  is  an  elegant  costume  to  appear  in  Miss  Fitzger- 
ald’s parlor,  isn’t  it?”  she  said,  with  a little,  harsh  laugh. 
44  But  for  all  its  untidiness,  it  would  be  considered  less  out 
of  place  in  that  aristocratic  crowd  than  I would.  Why, 
your  ears  and  mine  would  be  boxed  for  the  impertinence.” 

Still  gazing  curiously  down  into  her  piquant  face  with 
its  flush  of  anger  and  defiance,  he  asked : 

44  Tell  me  something  of  yourself,  please.  Tell  me  where 
you  live?” 

44  If  to  live  means  to  have  any  pleasure,”  she  responded, 
a hint  of  tears  coming  into  her  voice  and  into  her  eyes 
also,  as  he  could  easily  discover,  44  then  I don’t  live  any- 
where. I am  just  a little  nobody,  that’s  all.” 

At  that  instant  a white  and  an  exceedingly  delicate 
hand,  sparkling  with  diamonds,  drew  aside  the  lace  cur- 
tain, and  Miss  Fitzgerald’s  beautiful  head  appeared  be- 
tween the  folds. 

Daisy  Darrell  shrank  into  the  shadow,  and  then  with 
fleet  steps  disappeared  around  the  house  without  being 
seen  by  her  cousin. 

44  Do  you  prefer  solitude  to  our  sweet  society,  Mr.  Ban- 


6 


DAISY  DARRELL . 


croft,”  Geraldine  exclaimed,  seeing  the  young  gentleman 
standing  there  alone. 

He  turned  with  a smile  and  stepped  into  the  room 
through  the  low  window. 

“Don’t  charge  me  with  possessing  such  bad  taste,”  he 
said,  and  added,  with  a curiously  intent  look  coming  into 
his  dreamy  eyes: 

“Yet  it  is  in  moments  of  solitude  that  the  greatest  dis- 
coveries are  made.  Who  knows  but  that  I came  upon 
something  out  there  to-night  that  will  make  or  mar  my  in- 
dividual fortune — if  it  doesn’t  turn  the  world  upside  down !” 

Before  Geraldine  could  reply,  a sharp  shriek  pierced  the 
night  outside,  and  echoed  in  the  dancing-hall,  ringing  out 
shrilly  above  the  swelling  music,  and  seeming  to  paralyze 
the  merry-makers  with  sudden  dismay ! 

The  cry  had  evidently  come  from  a woman — and  a 
woman  in  dire  affright  or  distress— and  as  the  music  crashed 
into  silence,  many  of  the  crowd  hurried  out  into  the  lawn 
to  ascertain  the  cause  of  that  startling  disturbance. 

Foremost  among  those  were  Clifford  Bancroft  and  Geral- 
dine Fitzgerald,  who  went  simply  because  he  did.  But  he 
was  urged  forward  by  deep  anxiety,  for  he  could  not  help  as- 
sociating the  shriek  with  the  pretty,  flaxen-haired  young 
girl  he  had  found  lying  and  weeping  so  passionately  under 
the  pine  tree,  so  short  a time  before,  the  young  girl  who 
had  taken  so  strong  a hold  on  his  fancy. 


CHAPTER  II. 

“angel  or  devil?” 

When  Daisy  Darrell  flitted  so  swiftly  out  of  Clifford 
Bancroft’s  sight,  she  ran  into  the  deep  shadows  of  the  pine 
trees,  with  no  aim  in  view  except  to  be  alone. 

“ I will  pout  myself  into  a good  humor,”  she  said  to  her- 
self, as  she  sank  down  on  a rustic  bench  under  a great  tree ; 
“ I am  awfully  mad  now.” 

But  suddenly  she  sprung  up  with  that  sharp  shriek  which 
had  reached  the  ears  of  the  merry-makers  in  the  dancing- 
hall. 

As  Daisy  had  thrown  herself  petulantly  on  the  seat,  a 
great,  fiery  serpent  had  suddenly  fallen  from  the  branches 
overhead,  and  had  shone,  writhing  and  hissing,  three  feet 
from  her  face. 

It  hung  suspended  queerly  in  the  air. 

She  started  up,  and  began  to  run  fleetly  toward  the 
house,  when  a ringing  peal  of  boyish  laughter  fell  on  her 
ears,  and  the  voice  of  her  wild  cousin,  Harry  Fitzgerald, 
called  her  name. 

Instantly  a conviction  of  the  truth  flashed  over  her,  that 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


7 


she  had  been  the  victim  of  one  of  his  ingenious  pranks, 
and  she  immediately  paused  and  stood  looking  curiously 
but  disdainfully  at  the  fiery  serpent,  which  by  this  time 
was  lying  prone  on  the  grass  a few  yards  away. 

“ Whom  do  you  suppose  you  frightened,  Master  Harry?” 
she  called  out,  contemptuously;  and  an  impudent  voice 
from  the  tree  above  responded : 

“ I frightened  you — I scared  you  nearly  to  death ! Why, 
you  yelled  like  a panther,  and  just  because  you  saw  some 
bits  of  ‘fox-fire’  strung  together  on  wire.  You’re  a brave 
girl,  you  are !”  he  added,  derisively. 

She  was  about  to  retort  indignantly,  but  the  sound  of 
other  voices  fell  on  her  ears. 

Some  of  the  dancers,  attracted  by  her  wild  outcry,  had 
evidently  sallied  out  to  search  for  the  cause. 

She  sprung  forward,  and  picking  up  the  mock  serpent, 
she  ran  away  with  it,  and  hid  in  the  hollow  trunk  of  a 
great,  gnarled  catalpa-tree,  from  which  place  of  retreat 
she  heard  the  wondering  comments  of  those  who  were 
searching  over  the  grounds. 

“ It  was  nothing  but  the  baying  of  some  small  dog,”  she 
heard  a masculine  voice  assert,  44  and  in  the  noise  of  the 
music  and  dancing  it  was  sufficiently  indistinct  to  resem- 
ble a human  voice.  Let  us  go  hack  to  the  house.  4 On 
with  the  dance;  let  joy  be  unconfined.’  ” 

There  was  a general  assent  to  the  explanation,  and  also 
to  the  proposition,  as  Daisy  was  glad  to  discover,  for  she 
could  not  venture  from  her  uncomfortable  position  in  the 
tree-trunk  without  being  detected,  and  subjected  to  un- 
pleasant questioning,  as  long  as  they  wandered  over  the 
grounds. 

She  peered  cautiously  out  of  her  hiding-place  to  see  if 
the  coast  was  clear. 

The  crowd  were  returning  to  the  house  in  twos  and 
threes,  but  she  saw,  with  chagrin,  that  one  couple  had 
resolved  not  to  follow  their  example. 

In  the  very  faint  light  she  saw  them  seat  themselves  on 
the  rustic  bench  from  which  she  had  been  terrified  a short 
time  before. 

“I  hope  they’ll  catch  the  sneezes  before  they’ve  been 
there  five  minutes,  and  leave,  for  both  my  feet  are  going 
to  sleep  here.  Ugh !”  she  muttered  to  herself. 

But  the  damp  night-air  did  not  seem  to  have  any  bad 
effect  upon  them,  for  they  sat  there  talking  together  for 
at  least  fifteen  minutes,  and  poor  Daisy’s  aching  limbs 
were  growing  numb. 

44  I’ll  scare  them  away!”  she  said  desperately  to  herself; 
Whereupon,  without  taking  time  to  reconsider  her  resolve, 


8 DAISY  DARRELL. 

she  sent  the  fiery  serpent  flying  through  the  air  toward 
them. 

It  fell  around  the  neck  of  the  lady,  who  was  Miss  Ger- 
aldine Fitzgerald,  and  she  rent  the  air  with  such  a succes- 
sion of  piercing  shrieks,  that  Daisy  was  stricken  with  dis- 
may on  hearing  them,  and  she  sprung  from  the  tree  and  ran 
away  as  fast  as  her  numb  feet  would  permit. 

Clifford  Bancroft,  who  was  the  gentleman  ih  company 
with  Miss  Fitzgerald,  snatched  the  mock  serpent  from  her 
neck  and  held  it  up  before  her,  saying,  soothingly : 

“It  is  only  a piece  of  decayed,  phosphorescent  wood; 
see,  it  cannot  hurt  you.  But  it  was  cruel  to  throw  it  on 
you.  Wait  here  an  instant.” 

Without  heeding  her  expostulations  against  being  left 
alone,  or  possibly  without  hearing  them,  he  started  in 
pursuit  of  the  culprit,  whom  he  had  detected  rushing  away 
from  the  catalpa  tree. 

In  a minute  he  caught  a glimpse  of  her  white  garments 
in  the  darkness,  and  with  a few  swift  strides  he  had  come 
up  with  her,  and  his  grasp  was  on  her  arm. 

“ I have  caught  youl”  he  exclaimed. 

“ I think  you’ll  be  apt  to  let  me  go  again,”  she  responded 
defiantly,  “unless  you  are  willing  to  stand  here  all  night 
and  catch  your  death  of  cold.  For  I won’t  be  taken  alive 
before  Miss  Fitzgerald  to  be  scolded  by  her.  I have  had 
enough  of  that  already.” 

Clifford  Bancroft  stooped  down  and  peered  into  her  face 
in  the  uncertain  light. 

“It  is  you?”  he  said.  “Who  are  you,  you  little  fire- 
brand?” 

“I  may  be,  as  you  say,  a little  fire-brand.  Miss  Ger- 
aldine Fitzgerald  calls  me  ‘ a devil  ’ when  she’s  in  a bad 
humor.  So  you  had  better  not  keep  company  with  me,” 
she  responded,  saucily. 

So  saying,  she  wrenched  her  arm  from  his  detaining 
grasp,  and  now  that  the  young  blood  had  begun  to  course 
with  its  usual  freedom  through  her  limbs,  she  ran  away 
with  the  swiftness  of  a lap-wing,  and  he  stood  staring  at 
the  spot  from  which  she  had  disappeared. 

“ Angel  or  devil,  she  is  the  most  interesting,  the  most  be- 
wildering little  vision  that  ever  flitted  before  me,”  he  mut- 
tered. 

And  then  he  returned  to  Miss  Fitzgerald,  who  still  re- 
mained where  he  had  left  her. 

“ Your  shrieks  are  again  bringing  the  crowd  from  the 
ball-room,”  he  said  to  her,  offering  her  his  arm.  “ Let  us 
return  and  satisfy  their  curiosity  by  exhibiting  the  cause  of 
the  terror/’ 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


9 


He  glanced  with  a smile  at  the  serpent  now  hanging 
limply  on  his  left  arm. 

“Did  you  find  out  the  villain  who  frightened  me  so?”  she 
asked,  angrily,  and  he  answered  positively,  and  with  a 
singular  emphasis : 

“No;  I did  not — but  I won’t  leave  Pinelands  until  I do!” 

Miss  Fitzgerald  looked  into  his  face  with  a smile. 

“ It  is  a matter  of  no  importance,”  she  said — not  dream- 
ing of  what  the  future  would  develop. 

That  night  there  were  two  persons  whose  slumbers  were 
haunted  by  a face  that  had  never  flitted  through  their 
dreams  before. 

Those  two  were  Clifford  Bancroft  and  Daisy  Darrell,  and 
each  dreamed  of  the  other. 

But  Geraldine  Fitzgerald  saw  in  her  sleep  only  the  same 
dark  eyes  that  had  looked  through  her  own,  into  the  very 
center  of  her  heart  a few  weeks  before 4 4 on  the  beach  at  Long 
Branch.”  In  her  sleep  she  was  thrilled  by  the  echo,  as  it 
were,  of  the  same  low,  rich  voice  whose  tender  utterances 
had  trembled  on  her  ear  there. 

No  vows  had  ever  been  breathed  between  them,  yet  she 
felt  that  he  was  hers,  and  she  was  his. 

No  thought  that  his  love  was  not  firmly  fixed  upon  her, 
came  to  disturb  her. 

She  rested  secure  in  the  devotion  which  she  believed  she 
had  detected  in  his  eyes  and  in  his  voice  that  night  when 
they  had  met  again  after  a month’s  separation. 

“His  father  and  mine  were  like  brothers  in  their  college 
days,”  she  whispered  to  herself  that  night  as  she  laid  her 
regal  head  on  her  pillow— “so  it  is  the  most  natural  thing 
in  the  world  that  we,  their  children,  should  love  each 
other.” 

And  with  a happy  thrill  at  her  heart  she  fell  asleep  to 
dream  all  night  long  the  most  blissful  things  of  Clifford 
Bancroft.  But  the  young  lawyer  all  night  long  on  his  part 
saw  visions  of  flaxen  hair,  and  tear-wet  blue  eyes,  and 
heard,  or  seemed  to  hear,  a fresh,  girlish  voice  uttering  all 
manner  of  defiant  things,  but  never  once  did  Geraldine 
Fitzgerald,  with  her  regal  beauty,  cross  his  mental  vision. 
Yet  only  the  day  before,  he  would  have  sworn  that  the 
world  held  no  woman  who  could  stir  his  heart  as  she  did ! 

All  night  long  Daisy  Darrell  in  her  dreams  was  wander- 
ing under  the  whispering  pine  trees  with  the  tender  black 
eyes  of  the  handsome  New  Yorker  upon  her,  and  with  his 
low,  rich  voice  speaking  to  her  and  telling  her  wonderful 
things. 

The  summer  morning  crept  into  her  little  room  and 
awoke  her— bringing  the  real  to  her,  and  putting  the  ideal 
to  flight  r 


10 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


An  ugly  feeling  took  possession  of  her.  A feeling  of 
bitterness  and  envy  it  was,  such  as  she  had  experienced 
the  night  before  when  looking  in  upon  the  waltzers. 

It  was  by  no  means  a natural  condition  of  mind  with 
Miss  Darrell,  and  even  while  indulging  it  she  was  ashamed 
of  it.  But  for  all  that,  she  did  not  try  to  banish  it ; she 
rather  hugged  it  to  her  heart,  and  felt  a sort  of  grim  satis- 
faction in  knowing  that  she  resented  in  her  own  mind  the 
indignities  which  she  felt  she  was  subjected  to  in  that 
house. 

“I  am  nothing  more  than  an  upper  servant,”  she  mut- 
tered, snapping  her  eyes  angrily,  and  tearing  at  her  short, 
curly  hair,  which  she  was  arranging  before  the  little  mir- 
ror— “ I ought  to  have  told  Mr.  Bancroft  that  when  he  was 
so  anxious  to  find  out  who  I was  last  night.  If  I ever  see 
him  again — and  of  course  I shall,  as  he  is  so  much  in  love 
with  Miss  Fitzgerald  ” — here  her  voice,  which  had  been 
growing  lighter,  suddenly  hardened  — u I will  tell  him,  if  he 
inquires  who  I am,  that  ! am  only  a servant  here.” 

She  was  in  the  habit  of  performing  one  service  in  the 
morning  which  she  would  have  done  with  infinite  pleasure, 
if  it  had  not  been  exacted  of  her  as  a duty  by  her  cousin, 
and  that  was  to  gather  and  arrange  the  flowers  in  the  par- 
lors while  the  dew  was  still  on  them.  She  had  a dainty 
way  of  arranging  them  which  Miss  Fitzgerald  liked,  so 
she  had  said  to  her: 

“ I shall  expect  you  to  fix  the  flowers  in  the  parlors  every 
morning;  it  is  not  much  to  expect  of  you,  surely— con- 
sidering  ” 

What  the  last  word  meant  she  did  not  say,  but  Daisy 
understood  her  to  allude  to  the  favors  she  received  there  as 
a poor  dependent  on  her  uncle’s  bounty,  and  so  it  was  with 
something  of  the  ill-grace  of  an  irksome  duty  that  she 
culled  and  blended  the  rare,  sweet  flowers,  rather  than  the 
exquisite  pleasure  it  would  otherwise  have  been. 

The  morning  after  the  ball,  with  scissors  in  hand,  she 
repaired  as  usual  to  the  garden,  and  with  her  skirts  caught 
up  on  her  arm  so  as  to  protect  them  from  the  dew,  she  was 
busily  employed  in  filling  a large  basket  with  flowers, 
when  the  sound  of  a footstep  behind  her  caused  her  to 
glance  hurriedly  around.  As  she  did  so  she  let  her  skirts 
fall  over  her  pretty  feet  and  ankles,  and  her  face  grew 
crimson  with  mortification  at  the  predicament  in  which 
she  had  been  found. 

There,  standing  less  than  a yard  from  her,  looking  down 
with  an  amused  twinkle  in  his  black  eyes,  was  Clifford 
Bancroft. 

“ Good  morning,”  he  said,  lifting  his  hat  and  smiling, 
■‘you  are  an  early  bird,” 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


11 


She  was  still  flushed  and  embarrassed  with  a memory  of 
the  little  slippers  and  the  several  inches  of  pink  stockings 
which  had  been  presented  to  his  view  in  her  efforts  to  pro- 
tect her  white  skirts  from  the  contaminating  dew,  but 
nevertheless  a roguish  twinkle  came  into  her  eyes  as  she 
responded  saucily,  “ The  early  bird  catches  the  worm,  you 
know.” 

The  uncomplimentary  allusion  was  pointed  at  himself  in 
a pretty,  impertinent  way  that  fairly  riddled  his  heart, 
which  last  night  those  same  bright  eyes  had  greatly  dis- 
turbed. 

“ I am  a worm  that  will  not  struggle  against  the  captiv- 
ity,” he  said,  drawing  a step  nearer  to  her,  and  looking 
down  into  her  uplifted  face,  which  the  gold  of  the  morn- 
ing sun  brightened ; “ I surrender  to  the  bird.” 

There  was  so  much  of  earnestness  underlying  the  light 
words  that  she  turned  her  face  away,  ana  bent  over  a 
rosebush  with  the  blush  deepening  on  her  cheeks,  and  the 
golden  lashes  drooping  quiveringly  over  her  blue  eyes. 

“Last  night  you  wouldn’t  tell  me  your  name,”  he  said, 
watching  her  little  hands  as  they  twisted  a rose  from  the 
stem;  “won’t  you  tell  me  this  morning  ?” 

She  turned  her  head,  and  glanced  saucily  up  at  him. 

“What  good  will  it  do  you  to  know  my  name?”  she 
asked. 

“ I know  it  must  be  a pretty  one,”  he  answered;  “and 
you  shall  not  take  a rose  from  that  bush  until  you  tell 
me,”  and  he  interposed  his  arm  between  her  hands  and 
the  blossoms,  laughing  triumphantly  as  she  shrank  away 
from  his  near  presence. 

“ If  I cared  to  keep  it  a secret,  I wouldn’t  tell  you,”  she 
said,  defiantly ; ‘ ‘ but  I had  as  lief  you  should  know  it  as 
not.  My  name  is  Daisy  Darrell.” 

“Daisy  Darrell,”  he  repeated.  “It  is  a pretty  name, 
just  as  I knew  it  must  be.  Are  you  a visitor  here?” 

He  was  still  bending  over  with  his  arm  mechanically 
stretched  between  herself  and  the  laden  rosebush,  thus 
guarding  its  blushing  treasures  from  her  rifling  hands  as 
he  put  the  question,  but  he  sprung  to  an  erect  position 
with  ludicrous  suddenness  as  she  answered,  with  her  blue 
eyes  looking  steadily  into  his  face: 

“ I am  a servant  at  Pinelands !” 

If  she  had  announced  herself  as  being  a disguised  vam- 
pire he  could  not  have  appeared  more  surprised  and 
shocked. 

After  that  involuntary  movement  which  had  brought 
him  to  an  erect  position  before  her,  he  stood  very  still  for 
nearly  a minute,  looking  down  into  the  defiant  little  face 


n DAISY  DARRELL . 

uplifted  to  his,  as  if  he  had  been  stricken  dumb  by  astonish- 
ment. 

Whatever  he  might  have  said  after  the  first  shock  of 
surprise  had  worn  off,  can  never  be  known,  for  just  as  he 
unclosed  his  lips  to  speak,  his  name  was  called  by  his 
father,  a fine-looking  old  gentleman,  who  approached  him, 
with  his  arm  linked  in  that  of  their  host,  Colonel  Fitz- 
gerald. 

With  her  basket  now  full  of  dew  sparkling  flowers  in  one 
hand,  and  her  scissors  in  the  other,  Daisy  turned  and 
walked  hurriedly  away,  and  Clifford,  still  feeling  strangely 
bewildered,  joined  the  two  old  gentlemen  in  their  prom- 
enade. 

The  elder  Bancroft  linked  his  disengaged  arm  into  that 
of  his  son,  and  as  the  three  moved  abreast  down  the  wide 
shell  walk,  he  said : 

41 1 have  been  helping  you  out,  my  boy,  in  something  that 
I know  is  very  near  your  heart.  I have  been  negotiating 
with  my  old  friend  here  for  a very  great  honor — for  a very 
precious  gift.  I ha  ve  been  telling  him  about  the  confession 
you  made  to  me  touching  the  state  of  your  heart  yesterday 
morning,  and  he  gives  his  full  consent  for  you  to  woo  and 
win  his  daughter  if  you  can.” 

With  his  brain  whirling,  and  his  heart  standing  still,  Clif- 
ford heard  those  words. 

In  a bewildered  way,  he  realized  that  Colonel  Fitzgerald 
had  come  around  to  his  side,  and  his  fatherly  hand  was  on 
his  shoulder,  and  his  fatherly  voice  was  in  his  ear,  saying : 

“I  pledge  you  my  word,  Clifford,  that  there  is  no  man  in 
the  world  to  whom  I would  as  willingly  give  my  daughter, 
and  I wish  you  success  in  your  suit  with  her!” 

He  heard  those  words  dumbly,  and  at  the  same  time  he 
seemed  to  be  hearing  a sentence  his  own  father  had  ut- 
tered : 

“ I have  been  telling  him  about  the  confession  you  made 
to  me  touching  the  state  of  your  heart  yesterday  morn- 
ing.” 

In  a numb,  drear  way,  the  thought  drifted  through  his 
mind : 

“Yesterday  morning  is  not  this  morning.  Yesterday 
morning  is  dead  and  buried,  never  to  be  resurrected.  This 
morning  is  pulsing  with  life,  is  filled  with  new  thoughts — 
new  purposes.” 

He  dimly  realized  that  if  Geraldine  Fitzgerald  was  the 
queen  of  yesterday,  Daisy  Darrell  was  the  queen  of 
to-day.  And  Daisy  Darrell,  by  her  own  confession,  was 
only  a servant  in  Pinelands ! 

But  with  these  convictions  over  him,  he  smiled  into  the 


DAISY  DARRELL.  18 

faces  of  the  oia  gentlemen,  and  tacitly  agreed  to  their  plan 
by  saying  only : 

“You  do  me  honor  far  above  my  deserts.  ’ 

And  yet,  even  while  saying  that,  his  eyes  were  glancing 
furtively  about  in  search  of  the  little  white-robed  figure 
that  had  flitted  away  from  him  with  a basket  of  dew-wet 
flowers  in  one  hand  and  a pair  of  scissors  in  the  other. 


CHAPTER  III. 

I SHALL  BE  SURE  TO  MEET  YOU !” 

While  the  three  gentlemen  were  walking  together  in 
the  garden,  talking  upon  indifferent  topics — for  out  of  deli- 
cacy the  proposed  alliance,  which  the  old  men  at  least 
seemed  to  be  much  pleased  with,  was  not  discussed  at 
length — the  breakfast-bell  sounded,  and  they  turned  their 
steps  to  the  house  and  entered  the  dining-room. 

There  they  found  Geraldine  awaiting  them,  tall  and 
graceful  and  statuesque-looking  in  her  flowing  white 
morning  dress,  and  a conscious  flush  mounted  both  to  her 
face  ana  to  Clifford’s  as  they  bowed  to  each  other. 

What  a beautiful  woman  she  was,  he  thought,  as  she 
took  her  place  behind  the  coffee-urn;  and  how  grandly  she 
Would  grace  the  head  of  any  man’s  table! 

A moment  before  entering  the  dining-room  there  had 
been  a sort  of  forlorn  feeling  over  him ; but  it  had  given 
place  to  one  of  intense  gratification  now. 

He  would  be  very  proud  to  exhibit  such  a woman  as  his 
wife  to  his  bachelor  friends  in  New  York. 

“By  Jove,  how  they  will  envy  me!”  he  said  to  himself, 
and  he  inwardly  laughed  at  the  absurd  infatuation  for  the 
pretty  flaxen-haired  “servant”  girl  that  had  come  over 
him  in  the  moonlight  and  lamplight  last  night,  and  among 
the  flowers  this  morning.  How  ridiculous  he  had  been! 

As  the  near  kinswoman  of  the  owners  of  the  house,  Daisy 
Darrell  had,  of  course,  a place  at  the  table  with  them 
whenever  she  chose  to  avail  herself  of  it.  But  this  morn- 
ing she  did  not  choose  to  take  advantage  of  her  privilege 
in  that  respect.  She  did  not  appear  at  the  table,  and  there 
was  no  audible  comment  on  her  absence. 

“ He  believes  I am  really  a hired  servant,”  she  said  to 
herself  with  a little  laugh,  “and  just  for  the  fun  of  the 
thing  I won’t  undeceive  him.  And,  after  all,  I am  not 
much  else.” 

The  smile  that  had  dimpled  her  face  died  away,  and  the 
bitter,  resentful  look  came  in  its  place,  and  she  burst  into 
tears;  and  sinking  down  under  the  window  of  her  own 
little  room,  before  which  she  had  been  standing,  she  cried 


14  DAISY  DARRELL. 

out  as  she  had  done  often  and  often  before  through  the 
last  dozen  hours : 

“ I haven’t  even  the  life  of  a petted  spaniel!  I wish  I 
were  dead!” 

What  had  come  over  her  to  make  her  feel  so  utterly  mis- 
erable?  Usually  her  fits  of  despondency  were  very  short- 
lived. But  ever  since  last  night,  ever  since  Geraldine 
Fitzgerald’s  handsome  lover  had  appeared  before  her  in 
the  uncertain  light  under  the  pine  trees,  and  had  looked 
down  at  her  with  such  a curious,  pitying  look  in  his 
dreamy  black  eyes,  there  had  been  a sense  of  desolation 
over  her  that  was  terrible. 

She  soon  dried  her  eyes,  however,  for  her  tears  were 
usually  like  April  showers  which  the  irrepressible  sunshine 
chased  away,  and  she  arose  from  the  floor,  on  which  she 
had  been  crouching,  and  went  down  into  the  now  deserted 
dining-room,  and  partook  of  a hearty  breakfast  in  solitary 
state. 

Afterward  she  went  away  from  the  house,  and  wandered 
out  on  the  lawn  where  the  tall  pine-trees  interlaced  their 
somber  arms,  causing  a fairy  web  of  sunlight  and  shadow 
to  fall  over  her  as  she  walked  slowly  about  under  them. 

She  soon  discovered  that  she  was  not  the  only  person 
who  was  indulging  in  a morning  ramble  out  there  in  the 
scented  grounds. 

Through  the  interstices  of  the  drooping  branches  she 
caught  sight  of  a white  dress,  and  leaning  forward  and 
peering  through  the  openings  in  the  needle-like  foliage,  she 
satisfied  herself  that  the  white  dress  adorned  the  majestic 
figure  of  Geraldine,  and  that  she  was  leaning  on  the  arm  of 
Clifford  Bancroft,  whose  handsome  head  was  bent  low  as 
he  talked  earnestly  to  her. 

A spasm  of  pain  shot  through  the  heart  of  Daisy  Darrell, 
and  she  turned  with  a swift  movement  and  hid  herself  from 
the  sight  of  them  behind  the  trunk  of  a tree. 

There  was  a rustic  seat  under  it  made  of  twisted  grape- 
vines, and  she  threw  herself  on  it,  with  the  heavy  shadow 
cast  by  the  gloomy  pine  branches  over  her. 

But  there  was  a far  deeper  shadow  within  her,  as  it  were 
the  ominous  gathering  of  the  storm  that  was  to  desolate 
her  life  in  the  terrible  after-time ! 

“ She  has  everything,  and  I have  nothing !”  she  muttered, 
with  her  little  white  teeth  set  defiantly,  “ and  she  is  not 
worthy  of  it,  for  she  is  hateful  and  cruel.” 

It  did  not  occur  to  her  to  question  the  source  from  whence 
flowed  the  great  bitterness  that  had  come  into  her  heart. 
She  was  an  impetuous,  fiery  little  creature,  apt  to  be  pow- 
erfully swayed  for  the  time  by  any  impulse,  either  for 
good  or  evil,  that  came  over  her,  but  happily  yielding  to 


DAISY  DARRELL . 


15 


the  dark  influence  only  for  the  briefest  period,  as  the 
good,  which  was  much  the  strongest  in  her  nature,  was 
quick  to  assert  itself  again. 

But  this  morning  it  failed  to  do  so,  and  for  more  than 
an  hour  she  sat  there  under  the  somber  tree,  thinking  all 
kinds  of  bitter,  resentful  things  against  Providence  for  its 
deeds  in  general,  but  especially  for  having  given  the  heart 
of  Clifford  Bancroft  to  Geraldine  Fitzgerald ! 

She  had  seen  Clifford  Bancroft  but  twice,  and  yet  she 
had  fallen  madly  in  love  with  him.  It  was  the  first  love 
that  had  ever  come  into  her  life,  and  it  had  brought  with 
it  jealousy  and  misery. 

While  she  was  sitting  there  nursing  her  wretchedness  in 
the  shadow  of  the  pine-tree,  the  man  to  whom  she  had 
given  her  whole  heart  so  impulsively  was  whispering 
vows  of  eternal  fidelity  to  Geraldine  Fitzgerald,  and  urg- 
ing her  to  name  an  early  day  for  the  solemnization  of  the 
marriage-rite  which  should  give  her  wholly  to  him.  And 
she  was  listening  with  downcast  eyes,  and  with  her  heart 
thrilling  rapturously ; for  she,  too,  from  the  depths  of  her 
soul,  loved  the  handsome  young  lawyer,  and  never  dreamed 
that  the  devotion  he  so  passionately  declared  for  her  was 
not  the  genuine  article,  but  an  excellent  counterfeit  which 
had  deceived  even  himself. 

When  he  parted  with  her  at  the  steps  of  the  broad  ve- 
randa, and  strolled  away  to  smoke  a cigar,  and  to  dream  of 
her,  she  had  given  her  promise  to  marry  him  in  the  “mild 
September,  ” now  little  more  than  three  months  off. 

As  he  wandered  about  under  the  trees,  he  came  suddenly 
on  the  figure  of  Daisy  Darrell,  who  was  weeping  passion- 
ately, with  her  bright  head  bowed  in  her  hands. 

At  the  sight  of  her  he  halted,  and  his  heart  began  to 
throb  tumultuously. 

She  had  not  seen  him,  and  without  being  conscious  of 
what  he  was  doing  even,  he  yielded  to  an  impulse  that 
came  over  him,  and  went  up  to  her,  and  laid  his  unsteady 
hand  on  her  curly  hair,  saying  softly : 

“Daisy  !” 

She  started,  and  lifted  toward  him  her  flushed  and  tear- 
wet  face,  which,  with  the  bright  drops  standing  on  it,  re- 
minded him— he  was  given  to  poetic  fancies— of  a rose 
dipped  in  dew. 

She  was  as  impulsive  as  himself — for  be  it  remembered 
that  both  of  them  were  young,  and  singularly  impressible 
— and  she  cried  out,  waving  him  away  with  her  hand : 

‘ ‘ Go  back  to  your  darling  Geraldine ! Why  do  you 
trouble  me  ? What  do  you  care  whether  J live  or  die?” 

She  was  beautiful — she  was  weeping — her  blue  eyes  were 
booking  up  at  him  through  a mist  of  tears — and  he,  as  has 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


16 

been  said,  was  young  and  impulsive— and  at  her  passionate, 
reproachful  words,  his  very  heart  seemed  to  be  wrenched 
from  his  bosom. 

He  lost  all  memory  of  his  troth-plight  to  Geraldine  Fitz- 
gerald—he  lost  all  memory  of,  all  care  for,  the  social  dis- 
tinction which,  he  believed,  separated  him  from  this  sin- 
gularly fascinating  young  girl;  and  he  dropped  down  on 
the  seat  by  her  side,  and  threw  his  arm  around  her,  and 
drew  her  bright  head  down  on  his  breast,  whispering,  pas- 
sionately : 

“ 4 What  do  I care  whether  you  live  or  die !’  I care  more 
for  you  than  for  anything  else  on  earth !” 

In  saying  that,  he  spoke  the  honest  convictions  of  his 
soul,  and  he  spoke  the  truth.  He  gave  no  thought  to  the 
future— to  the  disastrous  consequences  that  might  follow 
that  love.  Neither  did  she. 

With  the  ardor  of  youth  they  gave  themselves  up  to  the 
blissful  consciousness  that  they  loved  each  other.  Neither 
of  them  looked  beyond  that. 

“ I shall  leave  Pinelands  to-morrow  morning  to  attend  to 
some  important  business,”  he  said;  “but  I cannot  bear  to 
go  away  feeling  that  you  are  not  securely  bound  to  me.  I 
love  you  so  that  I feel  as  if  something  would  swoop  down 
from  the  very  skies  to  take  you  from  me.  I will  form 
some  plan  for  our  future.  Meet  me  here  at  ten  o’clock  to- 
night, and  I will  tell  you  the  conclusion  I shall  have 
come  to.” 

And  Daisy  answered : 

“I  shall  be  sure  to  meet  you!” 

By  that  time  the  sun  had  passed  into  a cloud,  and  the 
shadow  was  deeper  over  her  than  it  had  been  when  she  first 
sank  on  that  seat  two  hours  before ; but  she  was  uncon- 
scious of  it,  and  she  was  unconscious  of  the  deeper  shadow 
she  was  drawing  over  her  life  when  she  gave  that  promise. 

So  they  parted  to  meet  again  at  ten  that  night.  Clifford 
knew  now,  and  it  afforded  him  exquisite  delight,  that  Daisy 
Darrell  was  not,  as  he  had  believed,  a servant  at  Pinelands, 
but  was  instead  the  near  kinswoman  of  the  aristocratic 
owner  of  the  place,  and  the  possessor,  on  her  mother’s  side 
at  least,  of  as  pure  blood  as  that  which  coursed  in  his  own 
veins. 

He  felt  sorely  tempted  a dozen  times  during  the  day  to 
tell  Geraldine  that  he  had  been  mistaken  in  regard  to  his 
sentiment  for  her,  that  it  was  unbounded  admiration 
rather  than  love  he  felt  for  her.  But,  somehow,  he  was 
not  brave  enough,  or  ungallant  enough,  whichever  the  feel- 
ing of  restraint  might  be,  to  do  so.  The  very  thought 
made  a coward  of  him. 

And  so  in  an  embarrassed  way  he  continued  to  play  the 


DAISY  DARRELL . 


17 


part  of  a lover  during  the  hours  he  was  with  her,  and  he 
saw  that  she  accepted  the  homage  as  genuine,  and  her  lov- 
ing trust  brought  a sense  of  guilt  to  him  that  was  painful. 

“ I am  going  for  a long  ride,”  he  said,  early  in  the  after- 
noon. “I  know  you  will  be  very  grateful  to  me  if  I tear 
myself  away  long  enough  to  allow  you  to  take  your  usual 
afternoon  nap.  Bo  I will  oblige  you,  even  at  the  sacrifice 
of  my  own  wishes.” 

Geraldine’s  beautiful  face  wore  an  expression  of  regret 
that  flatly  contradicted  his  assertion,  but  he  pretended  not 
to  see  it,  and  so  he  ordered  a horse  to  be  saddled,  and  rode 
gayly  away,  throwing  a kiss  to  her  as  he  cantered  off 
through  the  avenue  ot  trees,  turning  in  his  saddle  to  look 
back  at  her  as  she  leaned  from,  the  parlor  window  gazing 
after  him. 

“She  doesn’t  really  care  for  me,”  he  said  to  himself,  by 
way  of  salving  his  conscience.  But  he  knew  he  spoke 
falsely  to  his  own  soul,  and  that  she  did  care  for  him  as 
much  as  woman  ever  cared  for  man  before ! 

When  he  met  Daisy  Darrell  that  night  and  looked  into 
her  eyes  in  the  dim  light  of  the  gathering  stars,  he  whis- 
pered in  her  ear : 

“I  have  arranged  for  our  future,  my  darling.  I have 
settled  on  a plan  by  which ‘you  will  be  wholly  mine,  and  I 
will  be  wholly  yours 

Then  he  muttered  hurriedly,  explaining  that  plan,  and 
Daisy  listened  blushing  and  trembling,  and  silently  con- 
senting to  what  he  proposed. 

She  made  only  one  remark,  and  that  was : 

“ What  will  Geraldine  think?” 

“Whatever  she  pleases,”  Clifford  Bancroft  answered, 
drawing  the  little  flaxen  head  to  rest  on  his  breast. 
*'  Henceforth  and  forever,  I shall  care  only  for  what  you 
may  think !” 

And  Daisy  believed  him,  and  was  willing  to  follow  in 
the  path  he  had  marked  out  for  her. 

Poor,  deluded  little  Daisy ! 


CHAPTER  IY. 

“you  will  soon  find  out  how  VERY  UNWORTHY  I AM  OP 
YOU !” 

The  next  morning  Clifford  Bancroft,  in  company  with 
his  father,  left  Pinelands. 

Geraldine  Fitzgerald’s  hand  lingered  willingly  in  his 
clasp  when  he  bade  her  good-bye. 

They  were  standing  together  in  the  parlor,  with  the 
fragrant  morning  breezes  floating  in  to  them,  laden  with 


18  DAISY  DARRELL. 

the  perfume  of  a thousand  flowers  that  were  abloom  in 
the  grounds. 

The  birds  were  singing  merrily  in  the  pine-trees,  and  all 
nature  seemed  to  be  rejoicing. 

But  Geraldine  Fitzgerald's  heart  was  very  heavy  within 
her.  She  was  parting  with  the  only  man  she  had  ever 
loved,  A strange  foreboding  of  evil  was  over  her,  and 
she  could  not  shake  it  off. 

“You  will  always  be  true  and  faithful  to  me,  won’t  you, 
Clifford?”  she  asked  with  a throb  in  her  mellow  voice. 

He  turned  his  head  away,  and  a dash  of  red  came  into 
his  face,  but  he  answered  steadily : 

“ Of  course  I will;”  then  he  added,  always  keeping  his 
eyes  averted  from  hers,  “ but  you  will  soon  find  out  how 
very  unworthy  I am  of  you,  and  you  will  be  glad  to  be  rid 
of  me,  maybe.” 

u Never,”  she  responded,  and  her  whole  heart  was  in  her 
voice  ;“no  matter  how  unworthy  you  may  be,  I will  always 
love  you.  Nothing  can  divide  us  except  your  infidelity  to 
me,  and  if  I should  discover  that,  I think,  indeed  I know, 
that  I should  hate  you  as  fervently  as  I now  love  you.” 

He  said  not  one  word  in  reply  to  that ; he  did  not  know 
what  answer  to  make,  so  he  only  dropped  her  hand  and 
turned  away. 

There  were  two  pairs  of  eyes  that  watched  him  as  he 
passed  from  sight,  and  two  pairs  of  lips  muttered  of  him, 
and  singularly  enough,  both  uttered  the  same  words: 

“ He  loves  me!” 

Those  two  watchers  were  Geraldine  Fitzgerald  and 
Daisy  Darrell,  and  how  lonely  the  great  house  at  Pinelands 
seemed  to  them  with  the  void  caused  by  the  man  each 
loved  with  all  the  strength  of  her  nature  so  painfully  ap- 
parent. 

There  was  also  in  the  eyes  of  these  two  girls  a feverish 
luster  indicative  of  the  mental  excitement  under  which 
they  labored. 

The  great  event  which  stirred  the  monotony  of  the  tedi- 
ous days  that  followed  Clifford’s  departure,  was  the 
arrival  each  evening  of  the  mail. 

With  restrained  eagerness,  but  with  undisguised  interest, 
Geraldine  Fitzgerald  watched  her.  father’s  movements  day 
after  day,  as  he  slowly  shuffled  the  letters  in  his  hands, 
reading  the  superscription  of  each  with  exasperating  slow- 
ness to  himself  before  appropriating  it  as  his  own,  or  pass- 
ing it  to  the  proper  owner.  But  the  days  passed  on,  until 
one  week  had  elapsed  since  Clifford  Bancroft’s  departure 
from  Pinelands,  and  no  letter  came  to  Geraldine. 

Daisy  Darrell  had  no  correspondents,  so  the  sudden  and 
vivid  interest  which  she  also  took  in  the  contents  Qf  the 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


16 

mail-bag,  would  have  astonished  her  uncle  and  cousin  if 
they  had  noticed  it— or  had  even  detected  the  tremor  in  her 
voice  when  she  asked  day  after  day,  with  averted  face,  and 
assumed  carelessness: 

4 ‘Of  course,  there  is  no  letter  for  me,  uncle?”  or  some- 
thing to  that  effect;  and  Colonel  Fitzgerald  would  reply  in 
his  low,  and  naturally  sullen  tones : 

“No — nothing  for  you.” 

Neither  he  nor  his  daughter  noticed  the  look  of  bitter  dis- 
appointment that  would  come  into  Daisy’s  pretty  face,  nor 
how  the  white  lids  would  droop  over  her  blue  eyes  in  order 
to  hide  the  tears  that  would  spring  into  them,  while  she 
would  turn  and  leave  the  room,  to  weep  herself  almost 
blind  in  her  own  little  chamber. 

‘ ‘ Of  course,  he  has  forgotten  me  l”  she  would  sob.  ‘ ‘ How 
could  he  care  for  a little  cast-off  like  me?  He  was  only  sorry 
for  me,  and  that’s  why  he  told  me  that  he  loved  me — and 
that  I should  hear  from  him  very  soon.  What  a fool  I was 
to  believe  he  was  in  earnest !” 

“Hope  deferred  maketh  the  heart  sick,”  it  is  said.  It 
also  made  Daisy  Darrell  very  restless. 

She  could  not  endure  the  monotony  of  the  house,  and 
she  began  to  take  long  walks  over  the  hills  and  by  the 
brook-side,  usually  returning  in  the  twilight. 

One  day — it  was  the  seventh  after  Clifford  Bancroft’s  de- 
parture- she  seemed  to  be  feverishly  excited.  Her  cheeks 
glowed  and  her  eyes  sparkled. 

Her  whole  manner  seemed  to  have  undergone  a change. 

The  angry  disdain  which  was  so  often  in  her  blue  eyes 
when  she  turned  them  on  her  cousin  Geraldine,  feeling  her- 
self ill-used  by  her,  was  entirely  gone,  and  in  its  place  was 
a deprecating  look,  as  if  she  was  mutely  begging  pardon 
for  something. 

Instead  of  going  silently  to  her  own  room,  as  was  her 
custom,  that  night  she  went  into  the  library,  where  her 
uncle  sat  reading. 

She  approached  him,  and  put  her  hand  timidly  on  the 
back  of  his  chair. 

He  turned  his  head,  and  looked  up  at  her  with  evident 
surprise. 

“Well,  Daisy,  can  I do  anything  for  you?”  he  asked, 
kindly. 

Tears  sprung  into  her  blue  eyes,  and  she  winked  them 
out  on  her  cheeks. 

“ I want  to  say,  uncle,”  she  said,  tremulously,  “ that  if  I 
have  seemed  ungrateful  to  you  for  the  kindness  you  have 
shown  me  since  mother  died,  and  left  me  without  home  or 
friends  a year  ago,  that  I am  sorry  for  it.  I want  to  say 
that  if  I have  not  been  happy  here,  it  may  have  been 


20 


DAISY  DARRELL . 


partly  my  own  fault.  And,  uncle,  I want  to  kiss  you  good- 
night.” 

Colonel  Fitzgerald  was  surprised  at  this  unusual  manifes- 
tation of  gentleness  and  affection  from  his  hoydenish 
niece;  but  he  lifted  his  face  to  receive  the  kiss  she  asked 
permission  to  give,  saying: 

“I  have  tried  to  do  my  duty,  and  perhaps,  more  than 
my  duty,  by  you,  Daisy.  Your  mother,  as  you  know,  de- 
liberately separated  herself  from  her  family  when  she  mar- 
ried a man  so  far  beneath  her  as  your  father  was.  But 
when  she  died,  and  left  you  in  abject  poverty,  I forgave 
everything  and  took  you  to  my  home.  I have  a large 
heart,”  he  went  on,  placing  his  hand  in  an  ostentatious  way 
over  it — “and  it  leads  me  into  all  manner  of  impetuous 
things.  And  I took  you  into  my  house,  as  you  know,  to  be 
the  associate  of  my  refined  daughter,  when  your  father’s 
profligacy  and  lack  of  pride  had  left  you  without  those  ac- 
complishments which  might,  had  you  possessed  them,  have 
made  me  proud  to  exhibit  you  to  my  friends  as  my  niece. 
But  I don’t  regret  what  I have  done  for  you,  my  dear,  and 
am  glad  to  know  that  you  appreciate  it.  And  now,  good- 
night, my  dear,  good-night.” 

“ Good-night,”  Daisy  responded,  and  left  the  room. 

The  softened  expression  which  her  face  had  worn  when 
she  entered  that  chamber,  was  gone  wholly  from  it  when 
she  went  out  again,  and  a hard  defiant  look  had  come  in  its 
place. 

“ I was  a fool  to  care  what  either  of  them  might  think,” 
she  muttered  between  her  teeth.  “ It  is  little  they ’ll  care 
what  becomes  of  me,  except  where  it  touches  them.  Uncle 
could  have  influenced  me,  but  nowit  is  too  late.” 

That  night  Daisy  Darrell  disappeared  from  Pinelands. 

With  whom,  or  where,  she  had  flown  was  a mystery  to 
which  she  had  left  no  clew. 

Guileless  as  a child,  and  as  ignorant  of  the  ways  of  the 
wicked  world,  she  had  cut  loose  from  the  only  home  she 
knew,  and  set  herself  adrift ! 


CHAPTER  V. 

“DAISY  DARRELL  HAS  GONE  AWAY.” 

What  had  become  of  Daisy  Darrell  ? Let  us  go  back 
and  see. 

The  day  before  the  night  of  her  disappearance  she  had 
arisen,  as  she  had  done  for  several  mornings,  terribly  de- 
pressed with  the  idea  that  Clifford  Bancroft  bad  only  been 
trifling  with  her  in  the  soft  things  he  had  whispered  in 
her  ears,  and  that  he  had  forgotten  her— cast  her  aside,  as 
if  she  were  a toy  he  had  wearied  of. 


DAISY  DARRELL . 


21 


She  had  walked  out  into  the  orchard. 

It  was  a sweet  morning — the  birds  sang  in  the  cool 
shadows  of  the  apple  trees;  the  wind  stirred  musically  in 
the  branches ; and  Daisy’s  April-like  spirit  caught,  as  it  were, 
the  sunlight  and  melody,  and  rapidly  grew  elastic. 

“ See  here,  Daisy,”  clear  and  ringing  came  to  her,  drop- 
ping through  the  branches  of  the  tallest  of  the  apple-trees, 
the  voice  of  her  boy  cousin,  Harry  Fitzgerald.  “Here’s 
the  cunningest  little  nest  up  here  you  ever  saw,  and  it’s 
got  two  of  the  queerest-looking  little  birds  in  it  1 I believe 
they  are  young  humming-birds !” 

4 ‘ A humming-bird’s  nest,  Harry!”  Daisy  exclaimed,  all 
her  really  heart-felt  anxiety  about  Clifford  Bancroft  for- 
gotten in  the  excitement  of  the  moment.  “ Don’t  put  your 
hand  in  it,  because  if  you  do,  the  old  bird  will  never  go 
back  to  it  again.  I’ll  come  up  and  peep  into  it,  though.” 

So  saving,  she  threw  off  her  bonnet,  and  divested  her 
small  feet  of  their  little  slippers,  and  then  she  nimbly 
climbed  the  trunk  of  the  tree,  and  swung  herself  from 
limb  to  limb,  with  the  free  grace  and  ease  of  a boy  poacher. 

While  she  was  hidden  up  there  in  the  branches,  among 
the  thick  leaves,  a boy  who  had  been  for  an  hour  or  more 
skulking  about  the  grounds  of  Pinelands,  and  peering 
about  as  if  he  were  on  the  watch  for  some  one,  crept  from 
behind  a neighboring  tree,  and  swiftly  dropped  a folded 
paper  into  the  crown  of  the  bonnet  she  had  left  on  the 
grass,  and  rapidly  disappeared  in  the  green  foliage  again. 

When  Daisy  came  down  from  the  tree,  dragging  Harry 
along  with  her,  she  picked  up  her  bonnet  and  thrust  it  on 
without  noticing  its  unsuspected  contents. 

It  was  only  when  she  removed  it  again  in  her  own  room, 
and  the  folded  paper  fell  to  the  floor,  that  she  became 
aware  of  the  fact  that  some  one  had  been  tampering  with 
her  head-gear  while  she  had  been  inspecting  the  bird’s 
nest. 

With  her  blue  eyes  wide  with  wonder  she  unfolded  the 
note  and  read  the  words : 

“ My  Darling,— I will  come  for  you  to-night.  Be  ready 
to  go  with  me.  Your  lover  always, 

“Clifford  Bancroft.” 

Daisy  read  this  over  with  flaming  cheeks  and  palpitating 
heart,  and  when  she  had  fully  taken  in  its  meaning,  she 
clapped  her  hands  in  childish  glee,  exclaiming : 

“He  hasn’t  forgotten  me  at  all ! He's  coming  to-night 
to  take  me  away  from  this  hateful  old  place ! I am  sorry 
to  leave  Harry,  bless  his  bad  old  heart!  But  I am  awful 
glad  to  get  away  from  my  lady  Geraldine,  Won’t  the 


22 


DAISY  DARRELL . 


open  her  black  eyes  when  she  finds  out  I have  run  away 
with  her  sweetheart,  though !” 

So,  in  a tremor  of  joyous  excitement,  she  placed  her  few 
trifling  treasures  in  a bundle  of  necessary  clothing,  and 
waited  in  a bewildered,  restless  state  for  the  night  to 
come. 

With  the  impetuosity  of  a thoughtless  child  she  made 
her  mind  up  to  take  this  dangerous  leap  in  the  dark ; to 
trust  her  life,  her  happiness  in  the  hands  of  Clifford  Ban- 
croft. 

Geraldine  had  looked  in  vain  for  a letter,  and  on  that 
seventh  day  she  said  to  herself,  with  her  arched  brows 
drawn  together  in  a black  line  across  her  forehead : 

“ If  I don’t  hear  from  him  to-morrow,  I will  write  and 
ask  an  explanation.” 

She  could  not  sleep  that  night — for  the  first  time  she  be- 
gan to  distrust  Clifford  Bancroft,  or,  rather,  she  began  to 
distrust  the  power  of  her  hold  on  him. 

With  her  lips  compressed,  and  with  a dark  cloud  on  her 
face,  she  stood  at  her  window  looking  out  upon  the  night. 

The  sky  was  as  clear  as  crystal,  and  the  moon,  full  and 
round,  shone  on  it  like  a silver  plate,  its  light  making  every 
object  on  which  it  fell  below  distinctly  visible. 

Her  vacant  gaze  was  suddenly  changed  to  one  of 
interest. 

On  the  long  grass  of  the  lawn,  under  the  shadowy  trees, 
she  saw  a carriage,  drawn  slowly  by  a pair  of  light-step- 
ping  horses,  halt,  without  the  breath  of  a sound  coming  to 
her  from  the  intervening  distance.  She  saw  the  carriage 
door  open,  and  a man  descended  from  it  and  made  his  way 
under  the  shadowy  trees  toward  the  house. 

In  that  tall  form  and  graceful  but  cautious  step,  Miss 
Fitzgerald  thought  she  detected  something  so  strangely 
familiar  that  it  set  her  heart  to  beating  stormily,  and  she 
felt  constrained  to  hold  it  down  by  pressing  her  hand 
heavily  over  it,  while  she  watched  the  tall  figure,  leaning 
from  her  window,  but  keeping  herself  hidden  from  his 
wandering  glance,  should  it  chance  to  stray  that  way,  in 
the  folds  of  the  curtain. 

She  saw  him  halt  under  a window  at  the  furthest  corner 
of  the  house,  and,  stooping  over,  he  picked  up  a handful  of 
sand  from  the  walk,  which  he  tossed  lightly  against  the 
glass,  and  stood  and  waited  awhile. 

Miss  Fitzgerald  saw  him  repeat  this  operation,  after  an 
intermission  of  five  minutes,  and  then  she  saw  the  window 
raised,  and  Daisy  Darrell’s  head  appeared,  and  she  heard 
her  startled  call : 

“ Who’s  there?” 

She  saw  the  map  lift  his  hat,  so  that  his  face,  although 


Daisy  darrell. . 


28 


in  the  shadow  for  her,  was  fully  revealed  to  Daisy,  while 
at  the  same  time,  he  made  a cautioning  motion  of  his 
hand. 

Then  he  went  still  deeper  into  the  shadow  of  the  house, 
for  he  went  close  up  to  the  window,  and  Daisy  leaned  out 
toward  him,  and  they  held  a whispered  conference  for  a 
few  minutes,  after  which  she  disappeared  into  her  room, 
while  he  stood  and  waited,  although  restlessly,  in  the  deep 
shadow. 

In  less  than  five  minutes,  a little  figure,  bonneted  and 
shawled,  and  carrying  a bundle  as  if  fixed  for  traveling, 
joined  him,  and  the  two  walked  hurriedly  toward  the  car- 
riage in  waiting,  and  entered  it,  and  were  driven  rapidly 
away. 

Geraldine  stood  staring  at  the  spot  where  they  had  dis- 
appeared, like  one  in  a bewildered  dream,  for  at  least  five 
minutes.  Then  she  started,  shaking  herself  as  if  she  had 
but  just  awakened  from  sleep,  and  going  hurriedly  along 
the  hall  to  her  father’s  room,  she  knocked  on  the  door,  and 
soon  Colonel  Fitzgerald,  blinking  the  mists  of  slumber 
from  his  eyes,  appeared  before  her,  asking  anxiously : 

“ What’s  the  matte:’?” 

She  answered  quietly  enough : 

“ Daisy  Darrell  has  gone  away  with  some  man  in  a car- 
riage, and  I believe  the  man  was— Clifford  Bancroft !” 


CHAPTER  VI. 

“I  MUST  KNOW  THE  WORST  AT  ONCE!” 

At  that  announcement  of  his  niece’s  flight  in  company 
with  the  man  who  was  his  daughter’s  affianced  husband, 
and  made  by  that  wronged  daughter  in  such  a calm,  even 
voice,  James  Fitzgerald  stared  aghast  for  a moment  or  so, 
and  then  he  exclaimed : 

“ Daisy  gone  with  Clifford  Bancroft!  Why,  Geraldine, 
what  do  you  mean?  Surely  you  have  been  dreaming!” 
“No.  I have  not  been  asleep,”  the  girl  answered,  speak- 
ing in  that  same  cold,  quiet  tone,  but  with  a hard,  unnatural 
ring  very  perceptible  in  it.  “I  have  not  been  in  bed  to- 
night, and  as  I stood  at  my  window,  I saw  a carriage  drive 
onto  the  lawn,  and  I saw  a man  get  out  of  it  and  go  to 
Daisy’s  window,  and  I saw  her  a few  minutes  afterward 
drive  away  with  him,  I believe  the  man  was  Clifford 
Bancroft !” 

Again  the  old  gentleman  stared  aghast,  and  ejaculated : 

‘ 4 Impossible ! Why  should  Daisy  go  away  at  this  time  of 
night  with  Clifford  Bancroft?” 

As  the  lamplight  streaming  through  the  open  door  of  his 
room  fell  on  his  daughter’s  face,  he  noticed  that  she  was 


U DAISY  DARHELL. 

deathly  pale,  and  that  her  large  dark  eyes  gleamed  like 
fire. 

“Surely,  surely  your  are  mistaken,  my  child,”  he  said, 
tenderness  mingling  with  the  amazement  that  was  still  in 
his  voice.  “Wait  until  I throw  on  my  dressing-gown,  and 
we’ll  go  to  Daisy’s  room,  and  see  what  is  really  the  matter. 
I dare  say  we  will  find  her  in  bed  and  asleep.  ” 

Geraldine  said  never  a word.  She  stepped  aside  and 
leaned  against  the  wall,  with  her  hands  clasped  tightly 
together  on  her  breast,  and  with  her  breath  coming  in  short, 
fluttering  gasps  through  her  parted  lips. 

Her  father,  carrying  a lighted  lamp  in  his  hand,  and 
arrayed  in  a long  crimson-dressing  gown,  joined  her  in  a 
few  seconds,  and  preceded  her  on  his  way  to  Daisy’s  room, 
at  every  step  uttering  some  incredulous  word,  to  which 
she  made  no  response. 

The  old  gentleman  halted  at  the  room  of  his  niece,  and 
knocked  sharply  on  the  door. 

No  answer  coming  to  the  summons,  he  repeated  it  twice, 
and  then  he  unceremoniously  turned  the  knob  and  entered, 
and  directed  the  light  of  the  lamp  toward  the  bed. 

It  was  unoccupied.  So  was  the  room,  save  for  his  pres- 
ence and  that  of  his  daughter,  who  had  halted  just  inside 
the  threshold,  and  stood  with  her  hand  still  tightly  clasped 
on  her  breast,  and  with  her  face  colorless,  and  her  eyes 
gleaming. 

“She  is  certainly  not  here,”  Colonel  Fitzgerald  said, 
sharply. 

“I  told  you  that  before  you  came  to  search  for  her,” 
Geraldine  said,  her  words  still  unnaturally  calm  and  cold 
and  hard.  “ I saw  her  go  away  in  a carriage  in  company 
with ” 

She  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  but  closed  her  lips  over 
it,  while  her  eyes  wandered  around  the  room  in  search  of 
some  note,  or  token  of  explanation.  But  no  such  thing 
had  been  left. 

“Whoever  the  man  was,  I am  satisfied  in  my  own  mind 
that  it  was  not  Clifford  Bancroft,”  Colonel  Fitzgerald  said, 
throwing  his  gray  head  proudly,  defiantly  back.  “ He  is  a 
gentleman,  and  if  he  were  not  ne  would  not  dare  to  do  such 
a thing — he  would  not  dare  to  put  such  an  insult  upon  me,  to 
say  nothing  of  yourself.  I have  no  idea  who  the  man  was 
—I  didn’t  know,  indeed,  that  she  had  any  especial  gentle- 
man acquaintance,  but  I would  stake  my  life  that  it  was 
not  Clifford  Bancroft !” 

Geraldine  moistened  her  lips  with  her  tongue  before  she 
responded,  always  speaking  in  that  unnatural  tone: 

“I  am  not  positively  sure  that  the  person  was  he,  but  I 
think  I recognized  his  general  appearance  as  being  his.” 


DAISY  DARRELL.  $5 

She  did  not  call  his  name ; she  seemed  to  shrink  from 
doing  so ; but  her  father  understood  her  to  refer  to  her 
affianced  lover,  and  as  he  turned  away  from  the  little 
chamber,  with  his  face  drawn  with  perplexity,  he  said, 
with  that  proud  assertiveness,  born  oi  conceit  and  vanity 
at  his  high  social  position : 

“Clifford  Bancroft  would  not  have  dared  to  abscond 
with  any  other  woman  so  long  as  he  was  the  betrothed 
husband  of  my  daughter?” 

As  he  went  down  the  stairs,  followed  by  Geraldine,  he 
added : 

“I  can  do  nothing  to-night,  but  to-morrow  I will  look 
into  the  matter,  and  I ventnre  to  say  that  I will  sift  it  to 
the  bottom  by  the  time  the  night  falls  again.” 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairway  they  separated,  she  turning 
into  her  own  room,  and  he  into  his. 

Geraldine  went  to  her  window  and  stood  looking  out 
upon  the  leaden  night. 

One  thought  only  was  in  her  mind,  and  it  kept  repeating 
itself  over  and  over,  taking  the  form  of  a question  which 
after  a time  became  maddening  in  its  persistency  : 

“Was  the  man  Clifford  Bancroft?  Was  the  man  Clifford 
Bancroft?” 

Over  and  over  again,  until  more  than  an  hour  had  passed, 
that  question  was  in  her  mind,  excluding  all  curiosity  in 
regard  to  Daisy  Darrell,  for  whose  sake,  if  her  suspicions 
proved  true,  he  had  forsaken  her,  Geraldine  Fitzgerald. 

It  was  only  after  the  first  benumbing  surprise  had  worn 
off,  that  she  took  in  other  features  of  the  situation.  Then, 
one  by  one,  and  in  startling,  lightning-like  flashes,  the  de- 
tails of  the  possible  wrong  and  insult  to  her  broke  into  her 
mind. 

If  the  man  was  Clifford  Bancroft,  there  could  have  been 
no  cause  for  his  elopement  with  Daisy  Darrell,  except  an  in- 
fatuation for  the  girl. 

He  had  never  seen  Daisy  Darrell  except  during  his  late 
sojourn  at  Pinelands;  therefore  while  he  had  been  paying 
court  to  the  heiress  of  the  house,  and  suing  for  her  hand, 
he  had  been  looking  with  eyes  of  favor,  and  of  course 
whispering  words  of  love  surreptitiously  to  the  humble  but 
pretty  dependent  of  the  house,  and  the  love  he  had  pro- 
fessed for  Geraldine  was  but  a mockery  and  a shameless 
deceit. 

Miss  Fitzgerald  was  very  proud,  and  she  was  crushed 
with  the  humiliation  that  such  a state  of  affairs  brought 
to  her.  But  that  was  nothing  compared  to  the  deeper  feel- 
ing which  was  like  the  bitterness  of  death  in  her  heart. 

When  she  had  given  her  promise  to  marry  Clifford  in 
September,  she  knew  that  she  could  only  bestow  on  him 


96  DAISY  DARRELL. 

the  added  gift  of  her  hand,  for  her  heart  was  already  hi&— 
his  wholly — his  only— his  irrevocably. 

She  sank  down  on  her  knees  by  the  window,  and  stared 
out  with  dry  eyes  on  the  leaden  night,  which  was  slowly 
passing  down  to  the  courts  of  the  dawn,  and  the  old  ques- 
tion had  come  to  din  itself  into  her  mind  again : 

4 ‘Was  the  man  Clifford  Bancroft?  Was  the  man  Clif- 
ford Bancroft  ?” 

“I  must  find  out,  or  the  suspense  will  kill  me !”  she  mut 
tered,  rising  with  a shiver  as  the  cold,  damp  breath  of  the 
gray  morning  swept  over  her.  “I  can’t  wait  on  father’s 
slow  movements,  or  on  the  developments  of  time.  I must 
know  the  worst  at  once;  I must  be  satisfied.  I will  start 
for  New  York  this  morning.” 

With  this  resolve,  which  required  action,  the  numbness 
seemed  to  pass  from  her,  and  a fever  of  excitement  came  in 
its  place. 

She  arose  to  her  feet,  and  in  the  dim  light  of  the  early 
day  she  began  to  pack  her  trunks ; and  when  she  met  her 
father  hours  afterward  at  the  breakfast  table,  she  was  ar- 
rayed in  her  traveling  garments  and  she  said  to  him,  utter- 
ing the  falsehood  unblushingly : 

“ Father,  I was  almost  suffocated  last  night  by  my  old 
heart  trouble,  and  it  frightened  me  so  that  I concluded 
that  I would  go  to  Aunt  Margaret’s  and  put  myself  under 
Doctor  Leverman’s  care  again.” 

“You  suffered  with  your  heart  again,  did  you  ?”  the  old 
gentleman  said,  looking  anxiously  and  keenly  across  the 
table  at  her,  and  seeing  unmistakable  traces  of  suffering 
on  her  beautiful  face.  “ I was  hopeful  that  you  were  en- 
tirely relieved  of  those  troublesome  attacks.  Go  to  your 
Aunt  Margaret’s,  of  course,  and  put  yourself  right  into 
the  hands  of  Doctor  Leverman.  I will  go  with  you.  I had 
intended  to  institute  inquiries  in  the  neighborhood  to-day 
after  Daisy  Darrell ; but  your  welfare  is  of  more  impor- 
tance to  me  than  that  of  a girl  who  could  so  far  forget  the 
lineage  from  which  she  sprung  as  to  elope  in  the  night  as 
she  did.  But  it’s  the  Darrell  blood.” 

He  dropped  his  knife  and  fork  and  frowned,  and  tugged 
at  his  long  beard,  while  he  added: 

“ I am  glad  for  you  to  go  to  New  York,  as  you  seemed 
last  night  to  suspect  Clifford  Bancroft  to  have  been  the  ab 
ductor,  and  I want  you  to  have  the  evidence  of  your  own 
eyes  in  contradiction.” 

Geraldine  made  no  audible  response  to  this,  but  sipped 
her  coffee  in  a nervous  way,  while  a faint  color  stained  her 
face  and  a feverish  light  shone  in  her  eyes. 

Only  to  herself  she  said : 

“ I,  too,  want  the  evidence  of  my  own  eyes.” 


DAISY  DARRELL . 


2? 


She  was  fighting  then,  as  she  had  done  all  night  long, 
against  the  conviction  that  the  man  she  had  seen  walk 
away  with  his  arm  around  her  cousin’s  graceful  form  in 
the  shadow  of  the  previous  night  was  her  own  idolized  be- 
trothed husband.  She  clung  to  the  uncertainty,  and 
sought  to  strengthen  it  with  all  the  power  of  her  nature. 

She  might  live  tortured  with  cruel  doubt,  she  thought, 
but  the  absolute  certainty  of  his  perfidy  toward  her  would 
either  kill  or  craze  her,  for  that  she  could  not  endure ! 

“ I will  trust  him  until  I know  that  he  scorned  me  for 
Daisy  Darrell,  and  then ” 

She  did  not  finish  the  sentence  even  to  herself,  and  she 
took  her  father’s  arm,  and  with  a firm,  proud  step  she 
entered  the  carriage  which  was  to  convey  them  to  the 
depot. 

So  the  first  step  on  the  journey  was  taken— the  first 
movement  in  an  investigation  which  was  destined  to  reveal 
the  strength  and  the  weakness  of  human  nature,  to  roll  the 
stone  from  hidden  springs  in  the  soul,  to  test  the  sort  of 
material  of  which  three  persons  were  made. 

Those  three  were  Daisy  Darrell,  Geraldine  Fitzgerald, 
and  Clifford  Bancroft. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

“nothing  but  death  shall  part  thee  and  me!” 

Clifford  Bancroft,  with  Daisy  at  his  side  in  the  car- 
riage on  the  night  of  her  elopement  with  him,  gave  orders 
to  the  driver,  to  make  all  possible  haste  to  the  village  of 
Dunbar. 

“We  will  be  married,  my  darling,  in  time  to  take  the 
early  train  east,”  he  said  tenderly  to  Daisy.  “ It  will  be  a 
secret  marriage,  of  course,  because  I don’t  want  to  run  in 
the  face  of  my  father’s  wishes.  But  after  a little  time, 
when  I have  prepared  him  to  see  you,  and  he  knows  the 
step  has  been  irrevocably  taken,  I shall  be  so  proud  to 
present  you  to  him  as  a daughter,  and  I am  sure  he  will 
welcome  you  as  such,  and  in  time  he  and  my  mother,  and 
my  sister  Mag,  will  be  as  fond  of  you  almost — not  quite 
though,  for  nobody  could  be  that — as  I am.” 

“I  don’t  care  whether  they  are  fond  of  me  or  not,”  Daisy- 
said,  in  her  willful,  defiant  way,  “ so  that  you  are.  I dornt 
care  who  hates  me  so  long  as  you  love  me.  And  you  will 
always  do  that,  won’t  you?” 

A deep,  thrilling  earnestness  came  into  her  fresh  young 
voice,  as  she  put  the  question  to  him,  and  he  answered, 
drawing  her  closer  to  him,  and  looking  down  into  her  cyeg 
in  the  uncertain  light: 


28  DAISY  DARRELL . 

44  I will  be  true  to  you,  forever  and  ever,  as  God  bears 
me  T 

After  a long  drive  they  entered  the  sleeping  village,  and 
Clifford  gave  orders  to  the  driver  to  halt  before  a little  cot- 
tage showing  darkly  among  its  clustering  vines  in  the  light 
of  the  breaking  day. 

“Wait  here,  darling,  until  I go  in  and  arouse  the  Rev- 
erend Mr.  Crawford,”  Clifford  said,  descending  from  the 
vehicle,  and  going  through  the  yard-gate  to  the  house, 
where  he  rang  the  bell  loudly. 

A minute  afterward  a gleam  of  light  appeared  through 
the  transom  over  the  door,  and  there  was  the  sound  of  a 
footstep  on  the  carpeted  hall. 

Then  the  key  turned  in  the  lock,  and  an  elderly  man 

Eeered  out,  lifting  the  lamp  above  his  head  so  as  to  shade 
is  eyes  from  the  glare. 

His  dark,  bright  eyes  looked  keenly  into  the  face  of  his 
untimely  visitor,  and  then  glanced  beyond  him  at  the  car- 
riage showing  shadow-like  at  the  gate. 

4 ‘ Are  you  the  Reverend  Mr.  Crawford  ?”  Clifford  asked, 
with  a sense  of  embarrassment  stealing  over  him,  and  with 
a very  perceptible  thrill  in  his  voice  which  the  good  man 
had,  perhaps,  heard  before  in  similar  cases,  and  had  there- 
fore come  to  interpret,  for  a smile  that  was  singularly 
winning  came  into  his  pale,  refined  face  as  he  responded : 

“ I am,  sir.  Will  you  walk  in,  and  let  me  know  how  the 
good  Lord  has  kindly  put  it  in  my  power  to  serve  you?” 
Clifford  Bancroft  bared  and  bowed  his  head,  and  followed 
the  preacher  into  his  little  sitting-room — with  a feeling  of 
humiliation  over  him,  awakened  by  a swift,  and  uninten- 
tional contrasting  of  himself  with  this  just  man. 

“ Mr.  Crawford,”  he  said,  halting  just  inside  the  door  of 
the  cozy  room,  and  standing  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and 
with  his  eyes  downcast  and  his  face  flushed,  “ I came  to 
say  that  I have  called  on  you  to-night  to  perform  a mar- 
riage ceremony.  Will  you  oblige  me  ?” 

Mr.  Crawford  reached  out  his  slender  hand,  and  placed 
it  kindly  on  the  young  man’s  shoulder — having  deposited 
the  lamp  on  a table : 

“I  am  a servant  of  God,”  he  said,  his  face  lighting  up, 
and  beaming  with  the  inward  peace  that  consciousness 
awakened.  “ Whatever  he  wills  me  to  do  that  I do,  cheer- 
fully, gladly.  I trust  it  is  His  will  that  this  marriage  may 
be  performed,  and  that  I may  perform  it.” 

Clifford  Bancroft  thought  he  detected  a subtle  admoni- 
tion in  these  words  of  simple  faith,  and  his  face  flushed  a 
trifle  deeper  as  he  said : 

“ It  shall  be  a marriage  on  which  Heaven  shall  smile,  if 
I can  influence  it  by  my  good  resolutions,” 


DAISY  DARRELL . 


29 


The  left  hand  of  the  preacher  pressed  more  kindly  on  his 
shoulder,  and  his  right  hand  clasped  that  of  the  young 
man,  as  he  said,  always  with  his  face  beaming  with  in- 
ward peace : 

“God  bless  you,  my  son.  He  always  smiles  on  good 
resolutions,  and  strengthens  you  to  carry  them  out.  As 
He  shall  give  me  power,  I will  perform  the  marriage  cere- 
mony you  speak  of  to-night.” 

Somehow,  with  the  sound  of  this  man’s  voice  in  his  ears, 
and  his  touch  on  his  hand,  Clifford  Bancroft  felt  himself 
spiritually  uplifted,  as  it  were. 

He  began  to  thrill  with  noble  impulses,  and  to  be  very' 
strong  in  the  resolve  to  be  true  and  faithful  to  Daisy  Dar- 
rell so  long  as  life  should  be  spared  to  them ; to  leave  her 
no  room,  so  far  as  his  truth  to  her  was  concerned,  to  regret 
the  step  that  he  had  induced  her  to  take  that  night. 

“ The  marriage  must  be  secret  only  to  save  father’s  feel- 
ings, and ” he  bit  his  lip,  leaving  the  sentence  unfin- 

ished. He  could  not  mention  the  name  of  Geraldine  Fitz- 
gerald even  to  himself,  for  he  could  not  help  feeling  that 
however  honorable  his  conduct  might  be  toward  Daisy,  it 
was  not  so  to  Geraldine. 

“ It  will  all  come  out  right,”  he  muttered  uneasily.  “ But 
it  would  be  an  awkward  thing  to  confess  the  matter  now, 
and  so  a secret  marriage  is  better  for  all  parties  concerned. 
When  the  proper  time  comes  I will  make  it  public,  and 
then  there  will  be  general  rejoicing,  of  course.” 

Thus  he  soothed  his  own  disturbed  conscience,  which  in 
a vague  way,  perhaps,  hinted  of  the  after-time  of  darkness 
which  should  follow  that  night’s  work. 

But  he  went  willfully  forward,  and  Daisy  Darrell  blindly 
followed  where  he  led. 

There  was  a marriage  that  night,  or  rather  that  morn- 
ing, in  Mr.  Crawford’s  little  parlor,  to  which  there  were  no 
witnesses  save  the  three  officiating  parties,  and  Mr.  Craw 
ford’s  gentle,  dove-eyed  wife — a marriage  which  made 
Daisy  Darrell  Mrs.  Clifford  Bancroft. 

“My  wife,  we  will  be  true  to  each  other.  You  shalf 
never,  as  God  hears  me,  regret  the  step  you  have  taken  if 
my  love  and  truth  to  you  can  prevent  it,”  the  young  hus- 
band said,  drawing  the  pretty  little  head  down  on  his 
shoulder,  as  they  were  being  driven  away  to  the  railroad 
station  to  catch  the  early  train  eastward  bound. 

At  that  moment,  when  all  his  being  thrilled  with  the 
earnestness  of  his  vow,  there  came  no  inward  conscious- 
ness, no  prescience  of  the  future  to  warn  him  that  he  had 
spoken  falsely;  that  in  the  oath  he  had  taken,  and  had 
called  on  God  to  witness,  he  had  perjured  himself! 

“ 4 Whom  God  hath  joined  together,  let  no  man  put 


DAISY  DARRELL, 


asunder!’”  he  repeated,  folding  his  arms  more  closely 
around  her,  and  looking  down  into  her  trusting  blue  eyes 
with  a world  of  love  in  his  own.  “That  is  an  unnecessary 
injunction,  as  far  as  we  are  concerned,  my  darling,  for 
nothing  but  death  shall  part  thee  and  me!” 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

“i  SHALL  NEVER  HAVE  RESPECT  FOR  MYSELF  AGAIN  I” 

“Well,  Gerry,”  Colonel  Fitzgerald  said  to  his  daughter 
on  the  evening  of  his  arrival  in  New  York,  “your  suspi- 
cion in  regard  to  Clifford  Bancroft  was  wholly  at  fault,  as 
I supposed  at  the  first.  I have  just  seen  his  father,  and  he 
assures  me  that  his  son  has  been  for  the  last  few  days  in 
Washington  city,  lobbying  in  Congress  in  order  to  get  a 
bill  through  the  House  in  which  my  old  friend,  Henry 
Bancroft,  is  very  much  interested.  He  tells  me  that  he 
had  a note  from  him  this  morning,  in  which  he  states  that 
he  will  be  at  home  this  evening.” 

He  was  standing  in  his  daughter’s  room,  stroking  his 
long  white  beard  complacently,  and  he  smacked  his  lips 
over  the  words  in  a most  self-satisfied  manner,  which 
seemed  to  say : 

“ I told  you  so,  and  I am  never  mistaken  in  any  convict 
tion  I may  entertain.” 

Geraldine  said  nothing,  but  the  color  swept  into  her  face, 
which  had  been  very  pale,  and  a glad  look  came  into  her 
dusky  eyes. 

Ah,  she  had  been  so  miserable,  so  miserable ! What  a 
blessed  assurance  those  words  of  her  father’s  were ! What 
a weight  they  lifted  from  her  heart! 

When  she  was  left  alone,  she  glanced  up  at  the  clock 
which  was  ticking  away  on  the  mantel,  and  she  fell  to 
counting  off  on  her  fingers  the  hours  that  would  probably 
elapse  before  she  could  look  again  into  those  dark,  dreamy 
eyes  which  held  for  her  the  very  light  of  her  life. 

“ He  will  come  to  me  this  evening,”  she  whisper  3d  to  her- 
self, surveying  her  grand  beauty  in  the  large  mirror  before 
which  she  had  taken  her  stand.  “As  soon  as  he  learns 
from  his  father  that  I am  in  New  York,  he  will  come  to 
me ; and  I never  will  doubt  him  again — never,  never.  I 
would  not  live  over  the  last  four  days  for  all  the  gold  and 
diamonds  in  the  world !” 

With  great  care  she  arrayed  herself  that  evening  in  her 
most  becoming  attire — and  she  exulted  in  her  beauty  as 
she  had  never  done  before ; and,  for  once  in  her  life,  not 
solely  because  it  was  hers,  but  because  he  loved  it. 

But  the  evening  darkened,  and  the  hours  trailed  away 


DAISY  DARRELL . 


81 


deep  into  the  night,  and  the  flowers  faded  in  her  hair  and 
on  her  breast,  and  he  did  not  come. 

Sick  with  disappointment,  and  also  bitterly  resentful 
toward  him,  she  tossed  all  night  long  on  her  sleepless  pil- 
low, with  her  nerves  painfully  athrill,  and  with  a weight 
of  wretchedness  pressing  on  her  heart  and  brain. 

Perhaps  he  had  not  returned  to  the  city,  or,  if  he  had, 
perhaps  his  father  had  neglected  to  inform  him  of  her  pres- 
ence in  New  York ; old  people  were  so  forgetful— about  the 
affairs  of  young  people  especially,  she  thought. 

She  would  write  a note  and  send  it  to  him,  and  hint  to 
him  that  she  would  be  glad  to  see  him  any  time  that  day, 
for  she  would  not  leave  the  house,  but  would  await  his 
coming. 

Only  a hint  to  that  effect  would  be  necessary,  she  told 
herself;  so  she  wrote  the  note,  and  dispatched  it  to  his 
office  early  after  breakfast. 

To  that  note,  in  due  course  of  time,  she  received  an  an- 
swer, which  ran : 

“I  will  be  happy  to  call  on  you  this  afternoon  at  five 
o’clock.  I have  an  explanation  to  make  to  you. 

“Clifford  Bancroft.” 

“He  has  doubtless  heard  of  my  vile  suspicions  against 
him,”  she  said,  with  a proud  smile  curling  her  haughty 
mouth,  “and  he  is  a little  indignant,  that  is  why  he  writes 
so  curtly.” 

It  was  half-past  five  o’clock  when  his  card  was  brought 
to  her,  and  when  she  entered  the  curtained  parlor  where  he 
waited  for  her  in  a soft  twilight  she  had  never  appeared  so 
superbly  beautiful  to  him. 

He  was  a worshiper  of  beauty,  and  the  rare  loveliness  of 
the  face  uplifted  to  him  while  she  extended  her  arms,  gleam- 
ing like  ivory  from  the  filmy  lace  of  her  black  sleeves,  and 
twined  them  impulsively  about  his  neck,  dazzled  him. 

“ I am  so  glad,  so  glad  you  have  come,”  she  murmured 
tremulously.  “I  have  been  so  miserable;  I have  had  such 
horrible  doubts  of  your  truth.  But  they  are  all  gone  now, 
Clifford ; it  was  insanity  in  me  to^have  cherished  them  for 
an  instant,  and  they  will  never  come  again.” 

At  that  moment  Clifford  Bancroft  would  have  been  glad 
to  have  died  in  order  to  be  rid  of  the  sense  of  shame  that 
rushed  over  him. 

But  mingled  with  that  sense  of  shame  was  another  feel- 
ing—a feeling  that  thrilled  him  with  exultation. 

This  woman — this  queen  of  beauty  and  grace— loved  him 
—loved  him  with  all  the  strength  of  her  nature. 

He  was  young,  he  was  a worshiper  of  beauty,  he  was 
singularly  impressible  and  impulsive. 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


32 

With  that  rare  face  uplifted  to  his,  with  that  low  voicie 
uttering  that  tender  confession  in  his  ears,,  the  resolve  he 
had  made  to  tell  her  honestly  that  he  had  been  mistaken  in 
his  own  heart  when  he  had  vowed  that  he  loved  her  be- 
yond all  others,  melted  into  nothingness. 

The  words  were  formed  in  his  mind,  but  his  tongue  re- 
fused to  utter  them. 

He  turned  faint  at  the  thought  of  the  violent  blow  he 
would  deal  her — shattering  her  great  love,  her  towering 
pride  in  one  cruel  stroke — and  he  instantly  abandoned  the 
idea  of  doing  so,  at  least  at  that  interview. 

But  the  consciousness  rushed  over  him  that  it  was  wrong 
— wrong  to  stand  there  with  those  loving  arms  trustingly 
folded  around  his  neck,  seeing  that  he  was  the  husband  of 
another  woman,  and  had  no  right,  therefore,  to  listen  to 
those  tender  whispers. 

So,  with  the  color  fled  from  his  tace,  he  disengaged 
himself  in  a moment — for  all  this  thought  had  come  in 
lightning-like  flashes  through  his  mind— from  her  embrace, 
and  seated  himself  beside  her  on  the  sofa,  murmuring  some 
inarticulate  words. 

He  knew  well  the  course  that  honor  demanded  he  should 
follow  toward  her,  and  yet  he  was  too  much  of  a coward 
to  take  it. 

If  she  had  been  less  blinded  by  love  and  joy  at  her  re- 
stored confidence  in  him,  she  would  have  noticed  his 
shame-faced  look  and  his  inward  unrest,  and  would  have 
felt  the  revival  of  her  sleeping  suspicions.  But  she  was 
blinded,  and  she  did  not  notice. 

The  dim  light  in  the  curtained  room  deepened  into  the 
dusk  of  nature’s  twilight,  while  they  sat  there  side  by  side, 
speaking  little,  and  indulging  in  those  long  pauses  which 
come  between  the  words  or  trusting  lovers. 

Not  once  was  Daisy  Darrell’s  name  mentioned  between 
them,  and  Geraldine  had  forgotten  her  very  existence. 
But  in  her  childlike  innocence  she  was  constantly  present 
in  the  mind  of  Clifford  Bancroft,  seeming  to  be,  as  with  an 
audible  voice,  accusing  him  of  treachery  to  her  and  of  du- 
plicity to  Geraldine  Fitzgerald. 

The  position  he  was  in  was  torturing.  He  felt  as  if  he 
should  go  mad. 

“ I wish  I had  never  gone  to  Pinelands!”  he  exclaimed, 
breaking  a pause  which  had  fallen  between  them  with  sud- 
den vehemence.  ‘ * It  has  ruined  me.  I shall  never  have 
respect  for  myself  again !” 

Geraldine  lifted  her  head  and  stared  at  him  in  a dazed 
way. 

44  What  do  you  mean  ?”  she  asked,  her  voice  low,  but 
hard  and  strained.  ‘‘I  demand  to  know  why  you  wish 


daisy  darrell.  as 

you  had  never  gone  to  Pinelands,  and  how  it  has  ruined 
you  ?” 

In  the  dim  light  her  dark  eyes  seemed  to  burn  his  with 
the  intensity  of  their  gaze,  and  he  turned  his  head  away 
and  said  tremulously : 

“ I cannot  tell  you  now.  I am  not  brave  enough  to  do  it, 
but  my  meaning  hinges  on  the  fact  that  I am  not  worthy 
of  you.  I am  a weak  fool— a poltroon  whom  it  is  a great 
pity  you  ever  met.” 

She  regarded  his  outburst  as  only  a bit  of  self-deprecia- 
tion, and  as  such  she  resented  it. 

“You  are  infinitely  too  good  for  me,”  she  said,  nestling 
near  to  him  so  that  her  head  was  touching  his  shoulder. 
“I  am  not  worthy  of  you  because  I doubted  you.  But 
those  doubts  taught  me  how  much  I loved  you.  Ah,  Clif- 
ford, I should  die  if  anything  took  you  from  me.  Be  true 
to  me  Clifford,  and  I will  be  true  to  you.  No  other  love 
shall  ever  come  into  my  life.  You  shall  be  my  all  in  all 
now  and  forever.” 

Oh,  that  he  might  die  then  and  there  and  be  rid  of  the 
shame  that  was  over  him ! Oh,  that  he  had  but  the  cour- 
age to  speak  the  truth,  even  though  it  should  slay  her 
with  its  bitterness  and  humiliation ! 

But  he  had  not  the  courage,  and  so  he  went  away  hear- 
ing her  whispered  pleading : 

“You  will  spend  every  spare  moment  you  have  with 
me,  won’t  you,  Clifford?” 

“ The  next  time  I see  you,”  he  said,  moistening  his  lips 
with  his  tongue,  and  speaking  in  a slow,  numb  way,  “I 
will  make  a revelation  to  you  which  will  surprise  you  very 
much,  and  will  turn  your  love  for  me— if  it  is  real  love — 
into  hatred.  I have  made  my  mind  up  to  that.” 

“ You  can  make  no  revelation  to  me  that  will  make  me 
hate  you,”  she  said,  shaking  her  regal  head  solemnly,  “ so 
long  as  you  love  me.  And  you  do  love  me,  don’t  you?” 

For  his  life  Clifford  Bancroft  could  not  have  answered 
anything  but  “ Yes.” 

And  with  that  falsehood  on  his  lips,  left  her  to  turn  his 
steps  toward  the  little  cottage  where  he  had  hidden  his 
bride  of  three  days. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

“he  is  sorry  he  married  me!” 

Clifford  Bancroft  walked  along  the  thronged  streets 
feeling  as  thoroughly  nervous  and  uncomfortable  as  ever 
man  might. 

He  was  terribly  out  of  humor  with  himself,  and  he 
was  consequently  out  of  humor  with  everything  else# 


u 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


“I  am  a fool!”  he  muttered  between  his  teeth -/‘an  im* 
pulsive,  headstrong  fool?” 

He  was  thinking  of  that  daybreak  marriage  he  had 
rushed  so  headlong  into,  and  yet,  it  had  only  been  four 
days  ago ! 

Had  he  already  begun  to  weary  of  the  pretty  little  toy 
he  had  taken  to  himself  that  morning  to  “Keep  and  to  hold 
until  death  should  them  part?” 

He  stepped  into  a restaurant  and  called  for  a cup  of 
strong  coffee,  for  he  felt  the  need  of  a stimulant.  - 

Then  he  walked  on  again,  passing  out  into  a suburb  of 
the  city,  with  the  softness  of  the  falling  night  around  him, 
and  the  glittering  stars  above  him. 

His  movements  were  nervous,  and  with  a slender  rattan 
cane  he  switched  off  the  heads  of  such  hardy  weeds  as  dared 
to  lift  themselves  beside  him,  so  near  the  sooty,  sandy  city ; 
and  there  was  something  suggestive  of  great  discontent  in 
his  manner  of  doing  it. 

“What  a splendid  woman  she  is!”  he  muttered  after 
awhile,  giving  expression  to  his  thoughts.  “It  is  no  wonder 
that  father  and  mother  and  Mag  wanted  her  as  an  orna- 
ment in  our  home.  They  will  never  be  satisfied  with 
Daisy,  of  course,  by  contrast  with  her.  I don’t  know  how 
I shall  ever  muster  courage  to  tell  them.” 

He  frowned  more  darkly,  and  switched  the  weeds  more 
ruthlessly,  until  he  turned  into  a gate  leading  into  a small 
yard,  in  the  midst  of  which  a tiny  cottage  stood,  embow- 
ered in  clustering  vines,  and  presenting  a picturesque  ap- 
pearance in  the  radiance  of  the  silvery  night. 

He  halted  inside  the  gate  and  uttered  an  impatient  ejacu- 
lation as  a graceful  little  figure  came  dashing  around  the 
house,  shouting  to  a small  shaggy  dog  that  was  pursuing 
her,  barking  shrilly,  and  presenting  the  appearance,  in 
the  mellow  light,  of  a ball  of  wool. 

The  graceful  little  figure  belonged  to  Daisy,  who  was 
flushed  and  panting  with  the  violence  of  her  exercise,  and 
whose  muslin  dress  was  torn  and  soiled. 

She  uttered  a scream  of  delight  as  she  caught  sight  of 
Clifford,  and  ran  up  to  him  and  threw  her  arms  around  his 
neck— a feat  which  required  her  to  rise  on  the  tips  of  her 
little  slippers— exclaiming : 

“ I am  so  glad  you’ve  come ! Gip  and  I got  tired  waiting 
for  you,  so  we’ve  been  racing  in  order  to  pass  off  the  time. 
And  would  you  believe  that  I can  beat  him !” 

Clifford  Bancroft  bent  and  kissed  the  pretty  face,  with 
all  the  discontent  gone  from  his  own. 

“My  little  darling!”  he  said,  feeling  great  compunctions 
of  conscience  for  the  disloyalty  which  he  had  so  recently 
been  guilty  of  toward  her,  and  mentally  resolving  that  it 


DA  IS  r DARRELL.  85 

should  never  happen  again.  4 4 My  little  darling,  I could 
not  come  any  earlier ; I was  detained  by — business.  ” 

His  face  flushed  crimson,  and  he  turned  his  head  away 
from  her  when  he  said  that,  remembering  the  nature  of 
that  business,  and  with  whom  it  had  been  connected. 

He  drew  her  hand  through  his  arm  and  walked  with  her 
to  the  house,  and  seated  himself  beside  her  on  the  small 
portico  under  the  trailing  vines. 

44  I want  to  talk  to  you<”  he  said.  “ I want  to  tell  you 
something.” 

44  You  speak  so  solemnly,”  she  said,  shrugging  her  plump 
shoulders,  and  making  a pretty  grimace,  “ that  I’m  afraid 
to  hear  it.  I am  afraid  you  are  going  to  tell  me  something 
dreadful.” 

Looking  seriously  down  into  her  face,  with  his  black 
brows  drawn  discontentedly  together,  he  said : 

“I  want  you  to  try  to  be  less  hoidenish,  and  more  lady- 
like, Daisy.  My  mother  and  sister  are  very  fastidious,  and 
I would  not  dare  to  present  such  an  unrefined  person  to 
them  as  a daughter  and  sister.” 

He  had  spoken  with  thoughtless  bluntness,  without  con- 
sidering the  effect  it  might  have  on  his  sensitive  young 
wife,  and  he  was  shocked  when  she  drew  herself  from  him 
and  burst  into  tears,  crying  passionately : 

44  You  are  ashamed  of  me.  That’s  why  you  married  me 
secretly,  and  you  are  sorry  for  doing  it  already !” 

He  denied  the  charge,  of  course,  and  with  her  head  pil- 
lowed on  his  breast,  he  soothed  her  with  tender  assurances 
of  his  devotion.  But  the  cloud  of  doubt  and  suspicion 
which  was  destined  to  widen  and  darken  until  it  broke  in 
a desolating  tempest  over  her  life,  at  that  hour  made  its 
appearance  on  her  sky.  Thenceforth  the  cold  shadow  of 
distrust  lay  between  her  and  him,  a hideous  specter  which 
she  could  not  exorcise,  struggle  against  it  as  she  might  and 
did. 

Keenly  alive  to  the  slightest  hint  of  coldness,  as  the 
weeks  flew  by  she  noticed  that  there  was  a surely  widen- 
ing chasm  between  herself  and  her  husband. 

He  came  in  late  at  night  often,  and  at  such  times  he  was 
irritable  and  fault-finding,  and  was  apt  to  criticise  Daisy’s 
hoidenish  manners  with  cutting  severity. 

44  He  is  sorry  he  married  me— he  would  be  glad  to  be  free 
from  me  1”  she  sobbed  passionately  to  herself.  4 4 He  leaves 
me  here  alone  day  after  day,  and  nobody  with  me  but 
Bridget.  He  never  takes  me  anywhere  with  him,  and  of 
course,  it  is  because  he  is  ashamed  of  me ! He  knows  that 
I never  attended  an  opera  in  my  life,  and  I begged  him  to 
take  me  to-night  to  see  4 Norma,’  and  he  wouldn’t  do  it. 


86 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


He  said  he  had  an  engagement ! I think  he  always  has  en< 
gagements  to  keep  him  from  giving  me  any  of  his  time  P 
While  she  was  crying  and  muttering  angrily  to  herself, 
Bridget,  the  Irish  servant,  entered  the  room,  and  seeing  he* 
pretty  little  mistress  in  tears,  she  exclaimed : 

“ Is  it  ony thing  has  gone  wrong  wid  ye,  hinny?” 

“I  want  to  go  to  the  opera  to-night,  Bridget,  and  Mr. 
Bancroft  won’t  take  me !”  Daisy  responded,  chokingly. 

4 4 Is  it  that  that  ails  ye?”  the  good-naturedigirljresponded 
patting  her  mistress’  short,  flaxen  curls.  “The  villain  ol 
the  wurld  he  is,  not  to  take  ye.  But  sure  ye  can  go  onv- 
how;  the  two  of  us  will  sthale  a march  on  him,  and  werll 
jist  shlip  off  and  go  to  the  opery  by  ourselves.” 

“Good!”  Daisy  exclaimed,  clapping  her  hands,  while  her 
flushed  face  beamed  with  anticipated  pleasure.  “ We  will 
hire  a hack,  and  you  and  I will  go  together,  Bridget,  and 
Clifford  need  never  know  anything  about  it.” 

So  it  was  that  Daisy  Bancroft,  as  if  driven  by  a cruel 
destiny,  appeared  at  the  opera  that  night. 

What  a flutter  of  excitement  she  was  in;  and  how  brill- 
iant the  light  was  in  the  hall,  and  how  beautiful  the  ladies 
looked,  in  their  silks  and  laces  and  jewels,  and  how  hand- 
some the  gentlemen  appeared  in  their  evening  costumes ; 
what  a fluttering  of  many-colored  fans  there  was,  stirring 
the  scented  atmosphere  like  wings  of  brilliant  birds ! 

That  scene  in  all  its  grandeur  remained  always  with  Daisy, 
as  if  it  were  seared  upon  her  memory  with  a red-hot  iron. 

She  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  one  of  the  aisles,  and  just  be- 
fore the  curtain  was  to  rise  a gentleman  and  lady  swept 
past  her  on  their  way  to  a private  box,  and  an  old  man  in 
front  of  her  whispered  audibly  to  the  young  girl  beside  him : 
“ That  lady  is  the  beautiful  Miss  Fitzgerald,  of  Kentucky. 
She  and  the  gentleman  with  her  are  to  be  married  in  Sep- 
tember.” 

Hearing  that,  Daisy  turned  her  eyes  with  a start  on  the 
couple  who  were  just  entering  the  box. 

As  she  did  so,  she  sprung  to  her  feet,  uttering  a smothered 
cry. 

In  the  gentleman  who  was  to  be  married  to  the  beautiful 
Miss  Fitzgerald  in  September,  she  had  recognized  her  own 
lawfully,  if  secretly,  wedded  husband — Clifford  Bancroft ! 

Was  she  dying?  She  was  growing  cold  and  blind,  and 
the  room  seemed  to  be  reeling  about  in  a mad  dance,  in 
which  she  held  only  the  sight , of  those  two — those  two 
who  were  to  be  married  in  September! 

She  made  no  effort  to  control  herself ; she  had  no  thought, 
no  care  for  herself,  yet  the  momentary  darkness  passed 
away,  and  she  had  not  lost  consciousness  even  for  an  in- 
jstant. 


Daisy  darrell. 


S7 


She  was  deathly  pale,  and  she  was  trembling  iolently. 

“ I am  ill — I must  go  home/’  she  whispered  to  Bridget. 

“ I shall  faint  if  I stay  here;  take  me  out  into  the  air.” 

The  warm-hearted  Irish  girl  instantly  threw  her  strong 
arm  around  the  slender  waist  of  her  mistress,  feeling  her 
swaying  in  her  clasp  as  if  she  were  about  to  fall  at  every 
step,  and  thus  supported  her  to  the  carriage,  in  which  they 
were  driven  rapidly  back  to  the  little  vine-wreathed  cot- 
tage where  the  happiest  days  of  poor  little  Daisy’s  life  had 
been  spent,  but  where  now  the  night  of  terrible  despair 
had  fallen  in  impenetrable  blackness  over  her. 

“Sure,  I’ll  stay  wid  ye,  hinny,”  Bridget  said,  as  Daisy 
threw  herself  across  the  bed  in  her  own  room. 

“No,  no;  there  is  nothing  of  any  consequence  the  mat- 
ter ” her  mistress  responded,  with  her  arm  across  her  eyes, 
and  speaking  in  a slow,  numb  way:  “Leave  me  alone;  I 
would  rather  be  alone.” 

The  girl  lingered  for  a few  minutes,  and  as  Daisy  lay  as  if 
she  were  going  to  sleep,  she  finally  stole  from  the  room. 

How  long  the  desolate  young  wife  lay  there  staring  her 
misery  dumbly  in  the  face  she  herself  never  knew,  for  she 
took  no  count  of  time.  She  only  knew  that  a great  light 
had  seemed  to  be  suddenly  snuffed  out,  leaving  her  in  utter 
darkness. 

She  was  naturally  so  light  of  heart  that  this  great  sorrow 
acted  upon  her  as  it  does  on  all  such  natures — it  utterly 
crushed  her. 

In  the  mental  storm  raging  within  her,  which  was  all 
the  more  oppressive  for  being  voiceless,  a hundred  words 
and  incidents  connected  with  her  husband  in  the  past  few 
weeks  came  to  her  like  lightning  flashes,  throwing  light 
upon  what  had  been  mysterious,  and  revealing  hidden 
mainsprings. 

She  understood  it  all  now— his  absences  from  her,  his 
moodiness  when  with  her. 

“ Geraldine  was  his  first  love;  he  never  really  cared  for 
me,”  she  said,  drearily,  to  herself.  “He  is  sorry  he  mar- 
ried me — he  would  be  "glad  to  be  rid  of  me.” 

When  she  said  that,  she  arose  slowly  and  stiffly  from 
her  bed,  and  went  across  the  room  and  threw  open  a win- 
dow, and  kneeling  down  beside  it,  she  stared,  wide-eyed, 
out  upon  the  black  night. 

She  heard  the  lonesome  throbbings  of  the  heart  of  the 
great  city,  which  was  subdued  in  sleep,  but  is  never  wholly 
silent,  and  it  seemed  to  be  beating  a funeral  march  in  com- 
pany with  her  own  heart. 

There  was  one  desire  strong  within  her — that  was,  to  re- 
lieve Clifford  Bancroft  of  the  burden  she  felt  she  had  be- 


38  DAISY  DARRELL, 

come  to  him ; and  after  awhile  that  desire  culminated  in  a 
wild  purpose. 

She  arose  suddenly,  and  drawing  the  light  scarf  which 
she  had  worn  to  the  opera  close  around  her  shoulders,  she 
stepped  through  the  open  window,  and  wandered  away 
aimlessly  through  the  black  night. 


CHAPTER  X. 

“IT  IS  LITTLE  I CAN  DO  FOR  YOU!” 

It  was  in  that  darkest,  dreariest  hour  of  all  the  twenty- 
four — the  hour  immediately  preceding  the  dawn — that 
Daisy  wandered  away  from  the  roof  which  had  sheltered 
her  during  the  brief  weeks  of  her  married  life. 

Where  should  she  go? 

In  the  feverish  state  of  her  mind  she  could  form  no 
plan. 

She  seemed  to  be  incapable  of  any  thought  save  that 
Clifford  was  tired  of  her.  That  he  would  rejoice  to  be  rid 
of  her,  that  he  might  be  free  to  woo  and  win  his  first  love, 
Geraldine  Fitzgerald. 

As  to  the  legality  of  that  proceeding  on  his  part,  no 
thought  entered  her  mind.  She  only  felt  sick  at  heart- 
sick with  misery  and  disappointment. 

She  was  only  impelled  by  one  impulse  in  her  flight,  and 
that  was  to  get  out  of  New  York,  to  leave  the  horrible  city 
as  far  behind  as  possible. 

So  she  mechanically  followed  the  road  leading  out  of  the 
suburbs  into  the  country. 

It  was  a way  she  had  never  traversed  before,  and  the 
darkness  through  which  she  wandered  was  so  intense  that 
she  could  not  even  see  the  cottages  that  lined  it  upon  either 
side  as  she  walked  on  in  a straight  direction. 

After  awhile  the  dim  gray  of  the  dawn  began  to  struggle 
through  the  darkness. 

Where  was  she?  How  far  from  the  little  vine-wreathed 
cottage  she  had  left  forever  ? 

Suddenly  this  wonder  stole  into  Daisy’s  benumbed  mind, 
and  stirred  for  the  first  time  since  she  had  seen  her  hus- 
band and  Geraldine  at  the  opera  the  mental  torpor  which 
seemed  to  be  over  her. 

In  the  faint  but  momentarily  increasing  light,  she  stood 
still,  and  glanced  about. 

She  had  walked  long  and  rapidly,  but  she  was  still  in  the 
suburbs  of  the  great  city  she  had  flown  from,  and  which 
she  felt  an  almost  insane  desire  to  lose  sight  of— as  one 
does  of  any  spot  where  some  great  calamity  has  befallen 
them. 

The  scent  of  its  smoke  and  the  faint  sounds  of  its  re- 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


89 


awakening  life,  came  to  her  on  the  sluggish  morning  air, 
and  it  sickened  her. 

44  It  is  a fitting  home  for  a person  as  false  as  he  is!”  she 
muttered,  giving  involuntary  utterance  to  the  first  unkind 
thought  of  her  husband  which  had  come  to  her. 

At  that  moment,  as  she  turned  to  pursue  her  way,  she 
caught  sight  of  an  object  on  the  side  of  the  road. 

Burdened  with  a sense  of  misery  and  bitter  wrong,  Daisy 
passed  by,  noticing,  in  an  unthinking  way,  that  the  object 
was  a woman — a beggar,  probably. 

44  I’m  a beggar  myself.” 

Daisy  muttered  that  assertion  to  herself  in  a hard,  bitter 
tone,  but  it  brought  to  her  a sudden  consciousness  of  her 
really  destitute  condition. 

She  was  homeless — she  was  penniless  1 

She  had  nowhere  to  lay  her  head,  save  on  the  grass  and 
stones  of  the  wayside. 

She  turned  and  went  back  to  where  the  woman  was  sit- 
ting in  a collapsed  position,  with  her  face  hidden  on  her 
knees. 

Her  clothing  was  so  worn  that  it  hung  in  tatters  on  her 
meager  frame ; and  she  shivered  as  if  she  were  cold. 

Daisy  was  too  heart-sick— too  much  overburdened  with 
her  own  trouble,  to  feel  any  pity  for  the  sorrows  of  others. 
But  she  entertained  a fellow-feeling  for  the  woman. 

Was  not  she  herself  poor,  desolate,  and  an  outcast? 

44  What  is  the  matter  ?”  she  asked,  looking  down  on  the 
crouching  figure. 

The  woman  lifted  her  bare  head  with  its  tangle  of  flaxen 
hair,  and  turned  a haggard  face  toward  the  questioner. 

Her  face,  with  its  bright,  hollow  eyes,  indicated  by  its 
mingled  expression  of  misery  and  degradation  and  de- 
fiance, what  manner  of  life  hers  had  been,  and  yesterday 
morning  Daisy  would  have  shrunk  from  the  pollution  of 
her  near  presence. 

But  not  this  morning— she  saw  in  her  only  a woman, 
poor,  shelterless,  friendless,  and  a chord  of  sympathy  went 
out  of  her  heart  to  her. 

44  What’s  the  matter  ?”  the  woman  said  repeating  Daisy’s 
question,  and  shivering  so  that  her  teeth  chattered  behind 
her  bloodless  lips — 4 4 1 am  cold,  and  I’ll  soon  be  colder.” 

She  hugged  her  knees  with  her  emaciated  arms,  and 
dropped  her  face  down  on  them  again,  with  a shiver  run- 
ning over  her  at  every  breath. 

44 1 am  as  poor  as  you  are,  and  it’s  little  I can  do  for  you,” 
Daisy  said  bitterly. 

But  she  unwrapped  the  blue  shawl  from  her  head  and 
shoulders,  and  bending  oyer  the  woman  she  gently  forced 


40 


DAISY  DARRELL . 


her  to  raise  herself  so  that  she  could  knot  it  Securely 
around  her  poor  shivering  figure. 

Having  done  that,  she  went  on  her  aimless  way,  glancing 
back  only  once,  and  then  she  saw  that  the  woman  had 
arisen  and  was  tottering  off;  her  wavering  sleps  were 
turned  toward  the  great  sheet  of  water  growing  rosy  now 
with  the  wine-flush  of  the  rising  sun. 

It  was  the  last  glimpse  Daisy  ever  caught  of  her,  and  she 
certainly  had  no  suspicion  of  the  important  part  in  her  own 
affairs  which  that  wreck  of  womanhood  was  destined  to 
play. 

Those  two  desolate  ones  went  on  their  separate  ways— 
one  toward  the  shining  water,  and  the  other  toward  the 
forest  whose  tall  tree-tops  formed  a dark  line  against  the 
distant  horizon. 

Daisy  made  her  way  toward  that  line.  There  was  an 
undefined  idea  in  her  mind  that  she  would  feel  safer  in  the 
heart  of  that  forest ; and  it  did  not  appear  to  be  very  far 
in  the  distance. 

But  her  eyes  had  deceived  her,  for  the  sun  had  climbed 
into  the  middle  of  the  sky  and  her  feet  were  wretchedly 
tired  before  she  reached  it. 

Her  head  was  aching  with  a dull,  heavy  pain,  and  every- 
thing seemed  to  be  swimming  before  her  eyes. 

Suddenly  the  trees  which  she  had  drawn  so  near  to 
peemed  to  enter  into  a mad  dance,  accompanied  by  the 
most  discordant  strains,  that  seemed  to  be  clashing  against 
her  brain,  and  then  thick  darkness  settled  over  it  all,  and 
she  lay  in  a dead  faint  on  the  road. 

Utter  oblivion  had  fallen  over  her;  a blessed  uncon- 
sciousness of  her  desolation  and  misery. 

Clifford  Bancroft,  with  his  dreamy  eyes  gazing  tenderly 
down  into  the  beaming  orbs  of  Geraldine  Fitzgerald, 
might  whisper  vows  of  love  to  her  there  in  the  very  pres- 
ence of  his  wronged  wife,  but  it  would  bring  no  flush  of 
indignation  into  those  marble  cheeks ; no  gleam  of  anger 
into  those  closed  eyes. 

Lying  there  on  the  road,  with  the  sun  beaming  on  her 
upturned  face,  and  with  the  wandering  breeze  stirring  the 
rings  of  her  hair,  Geraldine  Fitzgerald  and  Clifford  Ban- 
croft—and  love  and  sorrow— all  were  to  Daisy  as  if  they 
had  never  been. 

Happy  it  would  be  for  her,  perhaps,  if  she  should  never 
awaken  to  consciousness  of  tnem  again.  Happy  for  her, 
perhaps,  if  she  could  lie  in  that  death-like  state  for  all  time. 

While  poor  Daisy  had  been  making  her  way  forward, 
lured  by  the  dark  line  of  the  distant  forest,  the  miserable 
outcast  around  whom  she  had  knotted  her  shawl4  was  totter- 


DAISY  DARRELL . 


41 


in g on  in  a different  direction,  but  also  lured  by  an  object 
lying  in  the  distance. 

That  object  was  the  shining  water. 

On  she  went,  slowly  but  surely,  lessening  the  distance 
between  herself  and  the  inviting  flood. 

After  awhile  her  reeling  steps  brought  her  to  the  margin, 
and  with  her  feet  touched  by  the  waves  that  crawled  out 
with  drowsy,  soothing  murmurs,  she  halted  an  instant, 
and  her  lips  moved  with  some  inaudible  words— perhaps 
with  a prayer. 

Then  she  reached  her  arms  imploringly  out,  and  threw 
herself  into  the  water. 

There  was  a plashing  and  then  a gurgling  sound,  and  the 
flood  closed  over  the  poor  form  which  was  wrapped  in 
Daisy’s  shawl,  and  on  which  was  embroidered  the  word 
“Daisy,” 


CHAPTER  XI. 

“I  FOUND  HER  LYING  ON  THE  ROADSIDE!” 

Like  a broken  lily  Daisy  lay  there  on  the  edge  of  the 
forest  with  the  branches  of  an  oak  tree  drooping  pityingly 
over  her,  and  with  the  wandering  breeze  tenderly  kissing 
her  upturned  face,  and  with  the  sunlight  dropping  a cross 
of  gold  through  the  shadow  of  the  tree  on  her  breast. 

Less  than  ten  minutes  after  she  had  fallen  there,  and 
that  merciful  oblivion  had  come  to  her,  a light  spring 
wagon,  drawn  by  a gentle  white  horse,  rolled  briskly  down 
the  turnpike  road. 

The  driver  of  the  horse,  and  the  only  occupant  of  the 
wagon,  was  a fair-complexioned  countryman,  who  had 
soft  blue  eyes,  and  pale  gold  hair  and  mustache, 

“ Why,  Dan,  what’s  that?” 

As  he  addressed  this  query  in  a tone  of  astonishment  to 
the  gentle  horse,  he  drew  rein  with  his  eyes  fixed  in  a 
wide,  wondering  stare  on  the  prostrate  form  of  Daisy. 

He  sprung  out  of  the  vehicle,  and  with  hasty  steps  went 
to  her,  and  halted  beside  her,  and  looked  down  at  her,  with 
a world  of  pity  breaking  into  his  soft  eyes. 

“ Is  she  dead,  I wonder?” 

Muttering  that  in  an  unsteady  voice,  he  dropped  down 
on  his  knee  beside  her  and  bent  over  her,  placing  his  hand 
reverently  on  her  forehead,  and  then  on  her  heart. 

“She  has  only  fainted,  I think,”  he  muttered.  “ Thank 
God!” 

Then  he  cast  a bewildered  glance  around.  There  was  no 
one  in  sight— the  last  house  he  had  passed  on  the  road  was 
more  than  a mile  distant. 


4$ 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


There  was  a troubled  look  on  his  honest  face,  but  it 
cleared  away  with  a sudden  brightening  as  he  muttered : 

“I’ll  take  her  home  to  mother.  It’s  the  best  thing  I can 
do.  Mother  ’ll  bring  her  around  all  right — poor  little 
thing !” 

The  last  words  were  muttered  into  Daisy’s  deafened  ear 
as  he  lifted  her  gently  in  his  arms  and  deposited  her  ten- 
derly in  the  bottom  of  the  covered  wagon — with  his  coat 
folded  under  her  head  for  a pillow. 

Many  a time,  . during  the  half-mile  drive  which  followed, 
his  soft  eyes  turned  pitying  glances  on  the  graceful  figure 
lying  so  still  in  its  beauty— so  touching  in  its  utter  uncon- 
sciousness and  helplessness.  Many  a time  after  such 
glances  he  drew  his  sleeve  across  his  eyes  and  muttered : 

“ Poor  thing — poor  thing!” 

When  the  wagon  at  last  turned  into  a large  gate,  and 
slowly  made  its  way  among  tall  trees  to  an  old-fashioned 
farm-house,  a heavy  weight  seemed  to  be  lifted  from  the 
young  man’s  mind,  and  as  he  drew  up  before  the  door,  he 
called  out  in  a cheerful  voice : 

“ Mother,  mother!  Come  here,  mother!” 

“Keep  your  patience,  I’m  coming!”  was  responded  by  a 
clear,  feminine  voice,  and  an  instant  after  an  old  woman, 
with  shrewd  black  eyes  that  glittered  with  much  of  the 
fire  of  youth,  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

“John  Goldman,  will  you  please  to  inform  me,  what  in 
the  name  of  Old  Nick  you’re  taking  out  of  that  wagon!” 
she  exclaimed,  with  her  small  hands  uplifted  on  either 
side  of  her  withered  face. 

“I  don’t  know  who  she  is,  mother;  I found  her  lying  on 
the  roadside,  and  I put  her  in  the  wagon  and  brought  her 
home  to  you,”  John  responded,  advancing  to  the  house, 
holding  poor  Daisy  in  his  arms  as  if  she  were  a very  limp, 
as  well  as  a very  large,  doll. 

“The  mischief  you  did!”  the  old  lady  responded  in  a 
voice  exceedingly  gruff  and  threatening,  but  stepping  aside 
in  order  to  allow  her  son  to  pass  into  the  house  with  his 
burden.  “And  will  you  please  to  inform  me  how  you 
dared  to  bring  such  a peck  of  trouble  home  to  me?” 

“I  dared  to  do  it  because  I knew  what  a good,  warm 
heart  my  old  mother  has,  and  that  she  would  do  all  that  a 
mother  could  for  the  poor,  half-dead  little  thing.  So  I 
brought  her  home  to  you — and  now  where  must  I take 
her?” 

Talking  thus  confidently  John  was  following  in  the  wake 
of  his  mother  down  the  wide,  old-fashioned  hall. 

“Take  her  into  my  room,”  the  old  lady  said,  always 
speaking  gruffly,  but  with  that  peculiar  gruffness  which  is 
po  readily  detected  as  counterfeit.  “ It’s  more  homelike^ 


DAIS F DARHPjLL.  43 

to  me — and  I suppose  I shall  have  to  be  with  her  and  nurse 
her.” 

“ I know  you,  mother.  You  think  it  will  be  more  home- 
like for  her  when  she  opens  her  eyes— if  she  ever  does— 
poor  little  thing!”  John  responded,  tenderly  placing  Daisy 
on  the  cool  white  bed,  and  then  drawing  his  sleeve  across 
his  eyes  to  wipe  away  the  mist  which  had  arisen  in  them 
as  he  looked  down  on  the  pretty,  pale  face,  which  was  so 
childlike  in  its  age  and  expression. 

41  There’s  no  time  to  be  crying  over  her,  and  ‘poor  little 
thing ’-ing  her,”  Mrs.  Goldman  exclaimed  with  that  coun- 
terfeit sharpness.  u You’d  a precious  sight  better  be  try- 
ing to  put  some  life  into  her — if  she  isn’t  clear  dead.  Hand 
me  the  camphor,  and  then  go  down  into  the  cellar  and 
bring  me  a bottle  of  wine.” 

John  turned  with  great-  alacrity  to  do  her  bidding,  and 
in  a few  minutes  they  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  their 
exertions  to  restore  Daisy  to  consciousness  rewarded  with 
success. 

After  awhile  her  lips  parted  with  a fluttering  breath,  her 
eyelids  quivered,  and  John  with  instinctive  delicacy  shrank 
out  of  the  range  of  her  vision  should  she  unclose  her  eyes. 

“It  would  seem  more  homelike,  maybe,  to  see  mother’s 
face  than  mine,”  he  said  to  himself. 

So  it  was  on  the  shriveled  but  still  attractive  face  of 
Mrs.  Goldman  that  the  eyes  of  the  desolate  young  wife 
rested,  when,  with  returning  consciousness,  the  gold- 
fringed  lids  were  lifted  from  them. 

u Where  am  I ?”  Daisy  asked,  looking  wonderingly  into 
the  face  of  the  old  woman,  and  feeling  strangely  bewil- 
dered. 

“You  are  among  friends,  and  where  you  will  be  taken 
care  of,”  Mrs.  Goldman  responded,  a little  brusquely,  it  is 
true,  but  not  harshly,  and  her  hand  was  gentle  in  its  touch 
on  the  short,  flaxen  curls.  ‘ 4 Don’t  ask  any  questions 
now,  for  I won’t  answer  any,  but  shut  your  eyes  and  go  to 
sleep  if  you  can.” 

Daisy  felt  very  weak,  very  apathetic.  She  had  neither 
strength  nor  energy  to  resist  that  commanding  power, 
even  if  she  had  been  more  averse  to  obey.  So,  without 
uttering  another  word,  she  closed  her  eyes  again  like  a 
tired  child,  and  like  a tired  child  she  drifted  out  into  a deep, 
refreshing  sleep. 

Mrs.  Goldman,  seeing  her  charge  thus  soundly  slumber- 
ing, closed  the  windows  so  as  to  shut  out  the  garish  day, 
and  stole  softly  from  the  room. 

In  the  hall  she  encountered  John,  who  was  pacing  rest- 
lessly but  noiselessly  up  and  down  on  the  bright  carpet 
covering  the  floor. 


U DAISY  DARRELL. 

As  the  old  lady  appeared  he  asked  in  an  eager  but  sub- 
dued voice : 

“ How  is  she,  mother?” 

“She’s  asleep  now.  I think  she  wiil  soon  be  all  right,” 
the  eld  lady  responded.  “ She  had  only  fainted.  I wonder 
who  she  is,  and  to  whom  she  belongs?”  she  added,  mus- 
ingly. 

A warm  color  came  into  John’s  honest  face,  and  a warm 
light  into  his  blue  eyes. 

“I  don’t  know  who  she  is  nor  to  whom  she  belongs,” 
he  said  softly,  running  his  fingers  through  his  short  hair 
until  it  stood  on  end,  and  looking  straight  into  the  old 
lady’s  face.  “But  I do  know  one  thing,  and  that  is — 
that — that — I wish  she  belonged  to  us,  mother.  She 
might  be  my  sister,  you  know.” 

John  had  grown  painfully  embarrassed,  and  he  floun- 
dered in  his  speech. 

“You’re  a simpleton,  John  Goldman!”  his  mother  re- 
torted, bluntly.  “You’ve  fallen  in  love  with  her — that’s 
what’s  the  matter — and  I’d  like  for  you  to  inform  me  what 
you  know  about  her ! She  may  be,  and  very  likely  she  is, 
one  of  the  very  worst  baggages  in  New  York.  I wouldn’t 
turn  a sick  dog  out  of  my  house ; but  when  she  gets  well, 
she’ll  have  to  post  off,  as  sure  as  you’re  a foot  high,  John 
Goldman !” 

“You’re  not  the  woman  to  judge  anybody  unheard, 
mother,”  John  said,  placing  his  arm  around  the  still  pretty 
shoulders  of  his  mother.  “Wait  until  you  hear  what  she 
has  to  say,  poor  little  thing !” 

“I  think  I’ve  made  my  mind  up  about  her,”  the  old 
lady  said,  compressing  her  lips.  “ As  sure  as  you  live, 
there’s  something  wrong  about  that  girl,  John  Goldman!” 

Mrs.  Goldman,  having  emphatically  made  that  declara- 
tion, went  away  in  the  direction  of  the  kitchen,  and  her 
son  went  down  to  the  spring,  which  gurgled  musically  in 
the  cool  shadow  of  the  ravine  near  by,  to  bring  a bucket 
of  fresh  water. 

“ I want  some  fresh  water  in  the  house  when  she  wakes,” 
John  muttered  to  himself;  and  he  fell  to  speculating  about 
that  sleeping  girl  who  had  so  unexpectedly  fallen  under 
his  roof,  and  into  his  hands,  as  it  were. 

In  his  own  mind  he  indignantly  repudiated  his  mother’s 
avowal  that  “there  was  something  wrong  about  her.” 

“ I would  be  willing  to  stake  my  life  on  it  that  she  is  as 
good  as  gold,”  he  said  to  himeelf,  dreamily  dipping  up  the 
clear,  cool  water.  “When  she  wakes  she  will  explain  the 
mystery  that  seems  to  hang  over  her,  even  to  mother’s 
entire  satisfaction,  I believe.” 


DAISY  DARRELL.  45 

But  in  that  expectation  John  Goldman  was  destined  to 
be  wofully  disappointed. 

For  when  Daisy  awoke,  it  was  with  the  delirium  of 
brain-fever  over  her,  and  the  thread  by  which  she  clung 
to  life  was  of  the  slenderest,  and  threatened  from  hour  to 
hour  to  break,  and  let  her  fall  into  the  grave  which  seemed 
to  be  yawning  to  receive  her. 

And  John  Goldman  assisted  his  mother  in  watching 
over  her,  with  such  deep  solicitude,  such  strained  anxiety, 
that  it  actually  wore  the  rich  color  from  his  face,  and  left 
dark  shadows  under  his  eyes  as  the  days,  each  fraught  with 
more  danger  to  her  life  than  the  previous  one,  dragged 
slowly  by,  and  the  thread  holding  her  over  the  grave 
grew  more  and  more  slender. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

“do  you  know  where  your  wife  is?” 

When  Bridget  Conner,  Daisy’s  faithful  and  attached 
maid,  discovered  the  absence  of  her  mistress  when  she 
went  to  her  room  to  call  her  to  breakfast,  she  was  sur- 
prised, but  not  alarmed. 

“ Sure  the  cr’ature’s  gone  out  for  a walk ; and  its  through 
the  winder  she  got,  too,”  she  added,  laughing,  as  she  leaned 
out  through  the  casement  and  saw  the  print  of  the  little 
feet  in  the  soft  sod  below.  “ I’ll  kape  the  breakfast  nice 
and  warrum  for  her,  for  sure  it’s  hungry  she’ll  be,  the 
darlint.” 

But  the  delicate  viands  which  her  loving  care  kept  warm 
and  moist  were  destined  to  spoil  at  last,  for  the  day  wore 
on,  and  the  night  fell,  and  Daisy  did  not  return. 

4‘  Sure,  but  I wish  the  masther  would  come,  or  that  I’d 
know  where  to  look  fur  ’im,”  Bridget  said  to  herself,  lean- 
ing over  the  gate,  and  staring  up  and  down  the  lamp- 
lighted  street. 

She  had  grown  uneasy  at  her  mistress’  prolonged  absence, 
and  every  moment  added  to  her  feverish  unrest. 

“Arrah  wisha— why  don’t  they  come,  one  or  other  of 
’em?  Sure  it’s  crazy  I’ll  go  wid  de  worry!”  she  muttered, 
frowning  and  shrugging  her  shoulders  uneasily.  “I  can’t 
rist  here,  so  I’ll  go  up  the  street  and  see  can’t  I find  him  or 
her.” 

So  saying,  she  opened  the  gate  and  passed  out,  and  went 
hurriedly  along  the  pavement,  staring  anxiously  about. 

The  streets  were  thronged  with  people  intent  on  business 
or  pleasure,  but  neither  Daisy  nor  Clifford  was  among 
them,  and  Bridget  went  on  and  on,  up  one  square  ana 
around  another,  looking  eagerly  into  every  face  she  met, 
but  seeing  neither  of  those  she  sought. 


46 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


At  last,  as  she  was  going  over  a crossing,  she  nailed  to 
allow  a carriage  to  pass.  It  was  an  open  carriage,  silver- 
mounted  and  crimson  cushioned — with  a liveried  driver 
and  footman  in  attendance,  and  drawn  by  a pair  of  highly 
mettled  horses. 

But  it  was  not  the  elegance  of  the  turnout  which  elicited 
the  sudden  cry  of  delight  that  broke  from  the  lips  of 
Bridget  Conner. 

A gentleman  and  lady  were  occupying  the  vehicle,  and 
in  the  gentleman  she  recognized  her  master,  Clifford  Ban- 
croft. 

He  did  not  notice  her,  for  he  was  talking  to  the  richly 
dressed  lady  beside  him,  and  in  an  instant  the  carriage 
had  dashed  past  Bridget,  leaving  her  staring  after  it  in  a 
dazed  way. 

But  it  was  only  for  a moment  that  she  stood  thus  staring 
forlornly,  and  then  she  started  away,  running  and  shout- 
ing after  the  carriage  with  all  her  might.  But  the  mettled 
horses  distanced  her  in  a few  minutes — and  it  was  lost  to  her 
eight  in  a sudden  turning. 

“Oh,  wurra,  wurra!  Whatever  will  I do?”  Bridget  ex- 
claimed, tears  of  vexation  and  perplexity  beginning  to 
course  down  her  flushed  cheeks. 

“ What’s  the  matter,  woman?” 

It  was  a policeman  who  asked  the  question,  having 
caught  her  exclamation. 

“ It’s  the  gentleman  in  the  carriage  that  turned  the  cor- 
ner a bit  ago  that  I wanted  to  spake  to,”  Bridget  said, 
dashing  the  drops  impetuously  from  her  eyes.  “I  live 
wid  his  wife,  and  she’s  gone  since  last  night,  and  I don’t 
know  where  she  is,  and  I want  to  ax  him  does  he  know, 
but  I don’t  know  where  to  find  him!” 

“ What’s  his  name?”  the  policeman  inquired. 

“It’s  Clifford  Bancroft,”  the  woman  answered,  “and  I 
don’t  know  where  to  find  ’im.  He  was  in  that  carriage 
wid  a lady — but  she  wasn’t  his  wife— and  I couldn’t  make 
him  hear  me,  and  I don’t  know  where  he’s  gone  to.” 

Her  trouble  seemed  to  be  a matter  of  small  consequence 
to  the  policeman,  who  had  been  so  much  accustomed  to 
deal  with  murders  and  burglaries.  So  he  turned  without 
another  word,  and  started  to  pass  on,  but  Bridget  detained 
him  with  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

“ Can’t  ye  tell  me  how  I’ll  find  him?”  she  asked. 

“Go  to  his  place  of  business  and  inquire  for  him,”  the 
guardian  of  the  peace  said.  “If  you  don’t  know  where 
that  is,  look  in  a ‘directory,’  and  you’ll  find  out.  You’ll 
find  one  there.” 

He  pointed  into  the  office  of  a large  business  house  be- 
fore which  they  were  standing,  and  made  as  if  he  would 


DAISY  DARRELL . 4t 

to  off,  but  still  Bridget’s  detaining  hand  on  his  arm  held 
im, 

“ Coom  and  go  wid  me/’  she  said  imperatively.  44  Sure 
I don’t  know  narthing  about  the  4 therectory.’  ” 

The  policeman  offered  no  objection.  He  turned  stoically, 
and  went  to  the  office  with  her. 

He  went  up  to  the  44  directory,”  which  was  lying  on  the 
office -counter,  and  turned  the  leaves. 

44  What  business  is  he  in  ?”  he  asked,  and  Bridget  stand- 
ing anxiously  beside  him  answered : 

44 1 think  he’s  a liar.” 

44  Lawyer,  you  mean,”  the  man  said,  rapidly  turning  the 
pages,  and  in  a minute  he  read : 

44  J.  S.  Sc  Clifford  Bancroft,  No.  764  Court  Place.” 

44  No.  764  Court  Place,”  Bridget  repeated.  44 1 know 
where  it  is.  I’ve  a sisther  that  has  a son  livin’  on  that 
sthrate.  I’ll  go  there  and  lave  worred  at  Mr.  Bancroft’s 
office,  if  he  ain’t  there,  that  his  wife’s  gone,  and  I don’t 
know  where  she’s  gone  to.” 

With  which  emphatically  spoken  resolve,  she  hurried 
out  of  the  hotel,  and  started  swiftly  up  the  brilliantly 
lighted  street. 

Her  course  led  past  the  opera-house  where  she  had  gone 
the  night  before  with  Daisy. 

There  were  a number  of  carriages  drawn  up  in  front  of  it, 
and  among  them,  Bridget  caught  sight  of  one  which  re- 
minded her  of  that  in  which  she  had  seen  Clifford  Ban- 
croft. 

She  made  he1'  way  through  the  crowd  of  vehicles  to  that 
particular  one. 

44  Whose  carriage  is  this?”  she  inquired  of  the  driver, 
who  was  indolently  reclining  on  his  high  perch,  and  who 
regarded  her  superciliously  as  he  answered : 

44  Judge  Bancroft’s.” 

44  And  where’s  the  gentleman  gone  to  ?”  Bridget  asked. 

44  He’s  gone  wherever  it  suits  him,”  the  man  answered 
impudently.  44  And  I don’t  know  as  it’s  any  of  your  busi- 
ness to  know.” 

The  woman’s  Irish  temper  flashed  up  in  an  instant. 

41  Hould  a civil  tongue  in  yer  head,  ye  dirty  spalpeen!” 
she  exclaimed,  brandishing  her  fist  menacingly.  44 1 asked 
ye  a civil  question,  and  it’s  a civil  answer  1 want.  Mr. 
Bancroft’s  wife’s  gone,  and  I don’t  know  where  she  is,  and 
I want  to  tell  him.” 

44  You’re  on  the  wrong  scent,  then,  old  lady,”  the  driver 
said,  again  speaking  insolently.  “For  Mr.  Clifford  Ban- 
croft hasn’t  got  a wife.  But  if  he  has  good  luck  he’ll  have 
one  in  four  weeks’  time.  I brought  him  and  the  lady  he’s 
going  to  marry  to  the  opera  here  to-night.” 


48 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


“You’ve  tould  one  lie,  but  you’ve  followed  it  with  the 
truth  I want  to  get  at,”  Bridget  responded,  curtly.  “ I 
know  he's  got  a wife,  or  he  had  one  last  night,  poor,  dear 
little  cr’athur!  Wherever  can  she  be  to-night,  I wonder?” 

Muttering  that,  she  turned  away  and  hid  herself  in  an 
obscure  corner  to  wait  until  the  opera  should  be  over,  and 
to  watch  for  Clifford  Bancroft  in  the  crowd  that  would 
stream  out  from  it. 

It  seemed  to  her  a long,  long  time  before  the  noise  of 
tramping  feet  and  of  many  blended  voices  warned  her  that 
the  evening's  entertainment  was  over. 

She  was  terrified  lest  she  should  miss  seeing  him  in  the 
surging  multitude, 

“ I’ll  watch  for  him  to  get  into  the  carriage,”  she  mut- 
tered, whereupon  she  turned  her  determined  eyes  on  the 
silver  mounted,  crimson-lined  vehicle  which  she  had 
learned  belonged  to  Judge  Bancroft. 

After  a minute  or  so  she  saw  it  move  up  to  the  side- 
walk, and  saw  the  footman  descend  from  his  perch  and 
throw  open  the  door. 

Then  she  pressed  breathlessly  through  the  crowd. 

Clifford  Bancroft  was  just  in  the  act  of  helping  the 
elegantly  attired  lady — who  was  Miss  Geraldine  Fitzger- 
ald— into  the  carriage,  when  Bridget  grasped  his  arm, 
exclaiming  volubly : 

4 4 Do  you  know  where  your  wife  is?  She’s  gone,  and  I 
can’t  find  her!” 

In  the  light  of  the  street  lamp,  she  saw  a vivid  color 
break  into  Clifford  Bancroft’s  swarthy  face,  and  a startled 
look  came  into  the  great  black  eyes  of  Miss  Fitzgerald,  who 
was  just  in  the  act  of  stepping  into  the  carriage,  but  who 
halted  as  if  she  had  been  paralyzed  with  astonishment. 


CHAPTER  Xm. 

“ IT  IS  A DEAD  BODY  THEY  ARE  TAKING  TO  THE  MORGUE !” 

Covered  with  confusion,  Clifford  Bancroft  stood  for  on 
instant  staring  dumbly  into  the  excited  countenance  ot’ 
Bridget  Conner,  then  he  shut  his  lips  together  and  pushed 
her  aside,  and  turned  with  his  usual  deferential  manner  to 
Geraldine. 

“ Let  me  assist  you  into  the  carriage,”  he  said,  touching 
her  arm,  and  she  mechanically  stepped  into  the  vehicle, 
and  he  sprung  in,  and  seated  himself  beside  her,  giving 
orders  to  the  driver  to  take  them  to  the  young  lady’s 
aunt’s,  where  she  was  still  visiting. 

As  they  rolled  away,  Bridget  stood  staring  after  them 
with  her  lips  puckered  comically. 

Sure,  it’s  on  a fool’s  errand  I’ve  been,  for  he  knows  all 


DAISY  DARRELL . 


4* 


about  where  she  is,  or  he  wouldn’t  take  it  so  aisy-like.  But 
what  right  has  a married  man  like  him  to  he  shparkin’ 
around  with  a pretty  young  woman,  an’  his  own  true  wife 
not  in  sight?  Sure,  if  he  was  my  husband  I’d  t’ach  him 
betther!” 

Bridget’s  indignant  soliloquy  was  brought  to  an  end  by 
finding  herself  penned  in  by  the  crowding  vehicles,  and 
she  made  her  way  to  the  pavement,  and  on  to  the  little 
vine- wreathed  cottage  again,  from  which  the  pretty  little 
mistress  had  so  suddenly  and  mysteriously  disappeared . 

In  the  meantime  the  carriage  containing  Clifford  Ban- 
croft and  Miss  Fitzgerald  was  rolling  rapidly  on  to  the 
palatial  residence  of  Mrs.  Margaret  Fitzgerald,  Geraldine’s 
widowed  aunt. 

Geraldine’s  glittering  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  flushed  face 
of  Clifford  Bancroft,  and  her  voice  was  sharply  imperative 
as  she  asked : 

“ What  did  she  mean  by  saying  your  wife  was  gone?” 

The  light  from  the  carriage  lamps  fell  full  on  his  face  as 
he  turned  it  toward  her  and  answered,  with  an  undertone 
of  angry  impatience  in  his  voice : 

4 4 You  certainly  know  that  the  woman  mistook  me  for 
some  one  else,  don’t  you?  You  certainly  know  that  I have 
no  wife.” 

As  he  uttered  the  falsehood  his  cheeks  flushed  with 
shame,  and  he  turned  his  head  away  with  a sense  of  his 
dishonor  bitter  upon  him. 

Geraldine  drew  a long  breath  of  relief.  The  suspicion  of 
him  having  been  Daisy  Darrell’s  abductor,  which  she  had 
abandoned  weeks  ago,  had  come  back  to  her  with  re- 
doubled keenness  at  Bridget’s  words. 

His  assertion  set  it  to  rest  again,  and  a quivering  smile 
came  to  her  lips  as  she  said : 

“ The  woman’s  words  about  your  wife  reminded  me  of 
something  I had  suspected  you  of  the  week  after  you  left 
Pinelands.” 

He  turned  a quick,  nervous  glance  upon  her,  and  then 
looked  away  again  without  speaking,  while  she  went  on: 

14  It  has  been  on  my  mind  to  tell  you  of  it  several  timee, 
but  I felt  that  it  would  be  an  insult  to  you,  so  I kept  si- 
lence on  the  subject ; but  I will  tell  you  now.  Do  you  re- 
member seeing  a young  girl  at  Pinelands— a blue-eyed, 
light-haired,  pretty  blonde,  named  Daisy  Darrell  ?” 

This  time  he  did  not  glance  toward  her,  but  kept  his 
face  still  in  the  shadow,  as  he  responded  in  a nervous  way : 

44  I saw  you  at  Pinelands.  Do  you  expect  me  to  remem- 
ber any  one  else  very  distinctly  ?” 

At  that  moment  he  wished,  as  he  had  done  many,  many 
times  before,  that  he  never  had  seen  Daisy  Darrell,  whose 


60 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


blonde  beauty  and  childish  ways  had  bewitched  him  into 
committing  the  folly  of  that  secret  marriage,  thereby 
binding  to  his  life  a little  ignoramus— so  he  called  her  to 
himself— whom  he  was  afraid  to  present  to  his  haughty 
family  as  his  wife. 

Miss  Fitzgerald  tossed  her  handsome  head,  and  uttered 
a low,  pleased  laugh.  Then  she  proceeded  to  tell  him  all 
she  knew  of  Daisy’s  disappearance,  and  of  the  striking 
likeness  her  abductor  bore  to  himself  as  she  saw  him  in 
the  uncertain  moonlight. 

Always  keeping  his  face  turned  from  her  in  the  shadow, 
he  listened.  It  was  an  effort  for  him  to  utter  a word,  but 
as  she  paused  in  the  narration,  he  forced  himself  to  ask : 

“ Did  you  ever  hear  what  became  of  the  girl?” 

“ No,”  Geraldine  answered  indifferently.  44  As  she  was 
father’s  niece  he  felt  compelled  to  institute  inquiry  for  her, 
but  he  failed  to  discover  a single  clew  to  her  whereabouts, 
and  at  last  he  gave  up  the  search.  Blood  will  tell,”  she 
went  on,  uplifting  her  regal  head  proudly,  44  and  it  did  so 
in  Daisy  Darrell’s  case.  Her  father  was  a trifling,  low- 
born man,  whom  my  aunt  eloped  with  and  marriea  when 
she  was  a very  young  girl,  and,  of  course,  her  family  cast 
her  off.  But  when  she  died,  my  father  took  her  daughter 
—who  was,  fortunately,  her  only  child— and  gave  her  a 
home,  and  tried  to  be  a father  to  her ; but  we  soon  found 
we  couldn’t  make  a lady  of  her— the  material  was  lacking. 
And  the  end  of  it  was  she  eloped  with  some  one  who  was, 
I suppose,  one  of  her  low  associates  before  she  came 
to  Pinelands,  and  we’ve  heard  nothing  from  her  since,  and 
never  want  to  again.” 

Miss  Fitzgerald  dismissed  the  subject  with  a wave  of  her 
white  hand. 

It  was  not  a very  warm  night,  and  the  air  was  cool  as  it 
blew  against  them,  but  there  were  great  drops  of  perspira- 
tion beading  Clifford  Bancroft’s  forehead;  and  the  blood, 
as  it  coursed  madly  through  his  veins,  seemed  to  be  burn- 
ing with  fever. 

A realization  of  the  wretched  predicament  in  which  his 
mad  act  in  marrying  Daisy  Darrell  had  placed  him,  had 
come  to  him. 

He  had  never  had  courage  enough  to  break,  on  any  pre- 
text, the  engagement  existing  between  himself  and  Miss 
Fitzgerald.  He  had  put  off  the  evil  moment  from  day  to 
day,  trusting  that  some  providential  help  would  come  to 
him  in  the  matter.  But  the  last  of  July  had  come,  mid  he 
was  still  pledged  to  marry  Geraldine  Fitzgerald  in  Sep- 
tember ! 

And  he  was  already  the  husband  of  another  woman! 

That  conversation  gave  him  an  opening  to  tell  the  truth, 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


51 


but  after  her  contemptuous  expressions  touching  Daisy 
Darrell  and  her  abductor,  he  could  not  summon  tne  reso- 
lution to  do  it. 

So,  while  he  was  in  this  miserable  state  of  torture,  the 
carriage  halted  before  Mrs.  Margaret  Fitzgerald’s  door, 
and  the  opportunity  was  lost. 

“ I will  see  you  to-morrow,”  Geraldine  said,  as  her  hand 
lingered  in  his  at  parting. 

41  Yes,  to-morrow,”  he  answered;  and  as  he  walked  hur- 
riedly down  the  street,  he  muttered:  44 To-morrow  I will 
tell  her.” 

As  he  went  on  down  the  street  a crowd  of  people  passed 
him;  and  he  noticed  in  the  midst  four  men  bearing  a litter, 
on  which  something,  evidently  a human  form,  was  lying, 
covered  with  a coarse  black  pall. 

44  It  is  a dead  body  that  they  are  taking  to  the  Morgue,” 
he  thought,  and  something  prompted  him  to  ask  of  one  of 
the  men : 44  What  have  you  there?” 

44  A drowned  woman,”  the  man  answered ; and  the  crowd 
passed  on  bearing  that  pitiful  burden  to  the  Morgue. 

Clifford  Bancroft  pursued  his  own  way,  which  led  him 
after  awhile  to  the  little  vine-wreathed  cottage. 

In  the  perplexity  that  was  over  him,  he  had  not  specu- 
lated on  the  possible  cause  of  Daisy’s  disappearance.  Yet 
it  was  on  account  of  the  information  Bridget  Conner  had 
given  him,  that  he  was  at  the  cottage  to  which  he  had  con- 
ducted her  as  a bride  a few  weeks  before.  He  had  no 
doubt  but  that  he  would  find  her  in  the  house,  and  that 
she  would  give  him  her  usual  childish  welcome,  and  he 
was  disappointed  when  only  Bridget  appeared  before  him. 

44  Has  Daisy  returned  ?”  he  asked. 

44  Not  a shtep  has  her  blessed  foot  put  on  this  floor  since 
last  night,”  Bridget  responded,  shaking  her  head  vigor- 
ously. 44  Ye  know,  av  coorse,  where  she  is,  don’t  ye  ?”  she 
added. 

He  did  not  know,  and  he  realized  that  fact  with  a terri- 
ble shock. 

It  was  midnight ! Where  could  she  be ; she  so  young, 
and  a stranger  in  the  great  city  of  New  York,  at  midnight  ? 

He  sank  down  on  a chair,  with  his  tortured  brain  seem- 
ing to  be  whirling,  and  drew  his  hand  tremulously  across 
his  forehead. 

He  began  to  question  the  Irishwoman  as  to  the  move- 
ments of  her  mistress  on  the  evening  of  her  disappearance; 
and  Bridget  told  him  everything  that  had  transpired  so  far 
as  she  knew  of  it. 

She  told  of  the  visit  she  and  Daisy  had  made  at  the 
opera,  and  of  her  mistress’  sudden  sickness,  and  departure 
from  the  place.  She  did  not  mention  having  noticed  Clif- 


62 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


ford  Bancroft  and  Miss  Fitzgerald  because  she  had  not  no- 
ticed them.  But  he  remembered  it  as  she  talked,  and  a 
guilty  consciousness  of  what  had  caused  that  sudden  faint- 
ness of  Daisy’s  came  to  him. 

“ She  was  jealous  of  Geraldine,”  he  thought;  “and  she 
ran  away,  she  is  such  a reckless  little  thing.” 

That  word  “ reckless,”  as  it  came  into  his  mind,  sent  a 
shock  through  him ; and  at  that  instant  the  memory  of 
the  crowd  he  bad  met  on  the  street,  and  of  the  awful 
thing  covered  with  the  black  pall  which  they  were  bearing 
to  the  Morgue,  rushed  over  him. 

The  color  went  out  of  his  face  and  the  warmth  from  his 
heart. 

He  arose  from  his  chair  and  began  pacing  rapidly  up 
and  down  the  room;  and  Bridget  stood  with  her  arms 
akimbo  and  stared  at  him,  until  he  seemed  suddenly  to 
become  aware  of  her  presence,  and  bade  her  sharply  to 
leave  him  alone,  that  he  would  look  Daisy  up  in  the  morn- 
ing. 

He  did  not  believe  that  the  still  figure  he  had  seen  out- 
lined on  that  litter  was  Daisy’s ; but  it  haunted  him — pos- 
sibly because  she  had  disappeared,  and  the  stillness  of 
death  brooded  over  the  house  her  bird -like  voice  had  made 
so  gay — and  the  form  on  that  litter  belonged  to  a dead 
woman. 

Through  the  dark  hours  that  followed  a feverish  unrest 
possessed  him,  a bitter  sense  of  guilt  overburdened  him. 

Very  tenderly  he  thought  of  his  child-wife;  he  forgot 
her  hoidenish  ways  which  had  so  shocked  his  refined 
taste.  He  remembered  the  fault  he  had  found  with  her, 
the  stern  effort  he  had  made  to  soften  those  childish  ways, 
and  he  was  sorry  for  it.  He  would  be  so  glad  to  tell  her 
so.  He  would  search  for  her  until  he  found  her ; and  when 
he  did,  he  would  take  her  home — home  to  his  father’s 
house — and  he  would  acknowledge  her  as  his  wife  before 
the  world. 

Not  a thought  of  Geraldine  Fitzgerald  crossed  his  mind. 

In  the  gray  of  the  early  morning,  he  left  the  cottage  and 
started  out  in  search  of  Daisy. 

Where  should  he  go  ! What  mode  should  he  employ 
to  find  her  ? Should  he  put  a detective  on  the  track  ? 
Should  he  put  an  advertisement  in  the  papers  ? 

In  this  state  of  indecision,  he  halted  in  the  street  and 
glanced  helplessly  around. 

He  had  forgotten  at  last  that  awful  burthen  that  had 
been  borne  past  him  last  night,  but  it  was  recalled  to  his 
memory  by  a sight  of  the  Morgue,  which  was  just  beyond 
him,  - 


DAISY  DARRELL.  53 

“It  is  nonsense!”  he  muttered,  “but  I will  put  that  mat- 
ter to  rest,  for  I will  see  the  drowned  body.” 

He  turned  his  steps  toward  the  Morgue,  and  entered  it. 

“ I wish  to  see  the  body  of  the  drowned  woman  who  was 
brought  here  last  night,”  he  said  to  the  attendant. 

“It  was  found  lodged  between  two  boats,”  the  man  an- 
swered, speaking  in  that  cold,  careless  tone  which  associa- 
tion with  misery  is  apt  to  engender.  “And  I doubt  if  her 
own  mother  could  identify  her.” 

He  drew  the  pall  from  a body  lying  on  the  marble  slab, 
and  Clifford  Bancroft  sickened  at  the  sight  of  the  face, 
bruised  beyond  all  recognition,  and  at  the  flaxen  hair  tan- 
gled with  weeds. 

He  only  glanced  toward  it,  and  then  he  turned  his  head 
away,  and  took  a step  to  retire. 

“You  might  learn  what  you  want  to  know  from  her 
clothing,”  the  attendant  said.  “The  shawl  has  a name 
marked  on  it.” 

He  stooped  over  the  body  and  spread  the  corner  marked 
with  the  embroidered  letters,  out  on  his  hand  as  he  spoke. 

Clifford  Bancroft  read  that  name : 

“Daisy.” 

He  glanced  at  the  bruised  face,  at  the  flaxen  hair,  and 
then  he  wavered  back  and  forth  as  if  he  would  fall, 
while  wave  after  wave  of  darkness  swept  between  him 
and  that  still  thing  which  had  been  once  a beautiful 
blonde  girl. 

Even  at  that  moment,  in  his  dazed  condition,  the  con- 
sciousness came  to  him  that  the  marriage  he  had  regret- 
ted so  bitterly  was  broken — that  he  was  free  to  marry 
Geraldine  Fitzgerald  when  he  pleased. 

But  it  was  a conviction  that  seemed  to  suffocate  him, 
for  he  gasped  for  breath,  and  thick  darkness  gathered 
over  him.  He  wavered  to  and  fro,  and  then  he  fell  in- 
sensible at  the  foot  of  the  slab  on  which  lay  the  dead 
body  that  he  believed  to  be  that  of  his  injured  young 
wife! 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

“I  WOULD  PREFER  PERDITION  WITH  YOU  TO  PARADISE  WITH 
ANY  ONE  ELSE!” 

Clifford  Bancroft  recovered  consciousness  almost  im- 
mediately. It  had  been  only  a shock — a sudden  and  mo- 
mentary giving  way  of  his  nerves — which  had  caused  him 
to  fall  blindly  at  the  foot  of  the  slab  whereon  lay  that  poor 
waif  who  had  been  drawn  out  of  the  water. 

In  an  instant  the  darkness  had  passed  from  him,  and  he 
staggered  to  his  feet: 


54 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


“She  is  a friend  of  mine,”  he  said  mutteringly  to  the 
staring  attendant,  making  a motion  of  his  hand  toward 
the  body  which  had  once  belonged  to  a young  and  beauti- 
ful woman,  but  never  glancing  toward  it.  “I  will  attend 
to  the  interment.” 

Then  he  went  out,  and  walked  in  an  uncertain  way  down 
the  street  with  the  golden  arrows  of  the  rising  sun  falling 
on  him  and  revealing  the  ghastly  whiteness  of  his  face. 

Not  a gleam  of  color  came  into  it  any  more  for  hours  and 
hours  afterward.  He  seemed  to  be  utterly  dazed,  and  he 
moved  in  the  mechanical  manner  of  a somnambulist. 

In  this  dazed  state  he  made  his  way  to  the  establishment 
of  an  undertaker,  and  arranged  with  him  for  the  burial  of 
the  drowned  woman  that  afternoon. 

Having  done  that,  he  went  away  to  the  little  vine- 
wreathed  cottage  where  he  had  been  accustomed  to  see 
the  bright  face  of  his  child-wife,  with  its  blue  eyes  and 
roguish  dimples  uplifted  to  give  him  a welcoming  kiss. 

He  shivered  as  he  contrasted  that  winning  face  with  the 
one  swollen  and  bruised  beyond  recognition,  now  lying  on 
the  slab  at  the  Morgue. 

The  noontide  sun  bathed  the  little  cottage  in  a flood  of 
gold,  but  how  still  and  desolate  it  seemed  with  that  bright 
young  life  gone  out  of  it  forever! 

Bridget  met  him  at  the  door. 

“Where  is  Miss  Daisy?”  she  inquired  eagerly. 

He  lifted  his  hand  and  motioned  with  it. 

“ She  is  there,”  he  said  drearily.  “There  in  the  Morgue 
— dead— drowned  1” 

The  woman  uttered  a sharp  cry  and  burst  into  a passion 
of  tears,  covering  her  face  with  her  apron. 

He  said  nothing  more  to  her,  but  passed  on,  shutting 
himself  up  in  the  small,  daintily  furnished  room  where  he 
had  spent  so  many  hours  with  Daisy. 

When  Bridget  knocked  on  the  door  a few  minutes  after- 
ward to  inquire,  with  floods  of  tears  rolling  over  her  plump 
cheeks,  of  the  death  of  her  beloved  young  mistress,  he  told 
her  in  a dull,  dreary  way,  all  he  knew,  or  thought  he 
knew,  about  her  fate..  Then  he  informed  her  that  her 
services  would  be  required  no  longer  there,  for  the  cottage 
would  be  closed. 

He  shut  and  locked  the  door  again,  and  he  came  out  of 
the  room  no  more  until  the  hour  he  had  arranged  for  the 
burial  of  the  drowned  woman  had  arrived. 

Mechanically  he  made  his  way  to  the  Morgue.  The 
handsome  coffin  he  had  ordered  was  being  placed  in  the 
hearse  when  he  arrived.  He  turned  his  eyes  away  from  it 
with  a shiver,  and  entered  the  close  carriage  which  was 
waiting  for  him,  and  was  driven  slowly  to  the  cemetery. 


DAISY  DARRELL . 58 

He  stood  as  the  only  mourner  at  the  grave  and  saw  the 
coffin  lowered  into  the  earth. 

“ Dust  to  dust.  Ashes  to  ashes.” 

With  those  words,  so  solemnly  proclaimingthe  frailty  of 
our  mortal  covering,  echoing  drearily  in  his  ears,  he  turned 
away  from  the  little  grave  and  was  driven  back  to  the  city. 

There  was  a great  void  in  his  heart,  and  life  seemed  to 
be  but  a mockery— a thing  scarce  worth  a struggle  to  main- 
tain—yet  it  was  his,  and  he  must  go  on  through  it  as  best 
he  could. 

His  mind  had  been  wholly  occupied  by  Daisy,  but  the 
sonorous  tones  of  a city  clock  sounding  from  a steeple 
above  him  as  he  passed  along  the  street  brought  to  him 
a swift  reminder  of  Geraldine  Fitzgerald. 

As  he  mechanically  counted  the  strokes,  he  recollected 
that  he  had  made  an  engagement  with  her  the  evening 
before,  to  visit  her  at  that  hour. 

In  his  apathetic  state  there  was  no  resistance,  and  no 
desire  of  resistance,  in  him.  He  was  like  a leaf  which 
obeys  the  will  of  the  wind. 

So,  reminded  by  the  clock  of  that  engagement,  he  turned 
his  steps  in  the  direction  of  Mrs.  Margaret  Fitzgerald’s. 

When  he  was  ushered  into  the  parlor,  he  found  Geral- 
dine awaiting  him  with  a shadow  on  her  beautiful  face, 
which  instantly  cleared  away  at  his  appearance. 

4 4 You  are  more  than  half  an  hour  late,”  she  said,  looking 
reproachfully  up  into  his  face. 

She  noticed  then  that  he  was  very  pale,  and  that  his 
black  eyes  were  dull  and  heavy. 

“You  are  not  well,”  she  exclamed  anxiously,  with  her 
white  hand  stealing  into  his. 

He  tossed  his  curling  hair  back  from  his  forehead  in  a 
listless  way,  and  drew  his  fingers  tremblingly  through  it. 

“No;  I am  not  quite  well,”  he  said,  and  his  usually  rich 
voice  was  so  hollow  that  it  startled  her. 

She  drew  him  down  to  a seat  beside  herself  on  a sofa. 

“You  have  scarcely  seemed  like  yourself,  Clifford,  for 
weeks,”  she  said  tenderly.  “I  have  been  anxious  about 
you.  Ah,  I love  you  so,  that  whatever  troubles  you  must 
trouble  me,  too.” 

He  looked  down  into  her  face  with  a hint  of  pity  strug- 
gling through  the  dullness  of  his  eyes. 

“ I am  not  worthy  of  any  woman’s  love,”  he  said,  drear- 
ily. “ I am  not  worth  a single  pang  that  love  would  cost. 
Better  it  would  be  for  any  woman  that  she  should  die, 
than  that  she  should  trust  her  heart  and  her  happiness  to 
mel” 

What  a world  of  self-reproach ! What  a strong  hint  of 
warning  there  was  in  his  voice  when  he  said  that ; but  it 


§6 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


only  seemed  to  melt  her  into  greater  tenderness  for  him. 
Her  white  arm  stole  softly  around  his  neck,  and  her  beau- 
tiful head  drooped  low  on  his  shoulder. 

There  was  such  a clinging  to  him ; such  an  abandonment 
of  her  entire  life  to  him  in  the  motion,  that  it  required  not 
the  assertion  of  her  lips  to  convince  him  of  her  love  for 
him,  and  her  trust  in  him. 

“ I would  prefer  perdition  with  you,  to  paradise  with  any 
one  else,”  she  said. 

At  that  instant  he  remembered  so  vividly  the  other  arms 
that  had  clung  to  him;  the  little  flaxen  head  that  had 
rested  on  his  shoulder ; the  bird-like  voice  that  had  uttered 
vows  of  love  and  trust  to  him,  that  he  seemed  to  himself 
treacherous  to  her  memory  in  listening  to  the  protestations 
of  this  rival  whose  charms  he  believed  had  driven  that 
child-wife  of  his  to  suicide ; and  he  drew  Geraldine’s  arms 
from  his  neck,  feeling  as  if  their  embrace  were  suffocating 
him. 

He  remembered,  with  a miserable  sense  of  his  own  weak- 
ness, that  all  the  time  he  had  been  the  husband  of  one 
woman,  he  was  the  plighted  lover  of  another,  and  that  he 
had,  with  despicable  cowardice,  deferred  from  day  to  day 
to  declare  to  Geraldine  that  an  obstacle  had  come  between 
him  and  her,  and  that  he  could  not  fulfill  his  promise  to 
marry  her.  It  was  the  goading  consciousness  of  that  im- 
perative duty  which  had  drawn  a cloud  between  himself 
and  Daisy. 

He  believed  that  the  necessity  for  making  that  embar- 
rassing confession  was  no  longer  with  him,  that  he  was 
legally  free  to  marry  Geraldine ; but  the  idea  was  horrible 
to  him. 

An  impulse  came  over  him  to  deal  fairly  and  candidly 
by  her,  to  tell  her  that  he  did  not  love  her,  that  he  could 
not  marry  her.  But  again  his  cowardice  came  over  him ; 
he  shut  his  lips  without  uttering  the  confession. 

“What  does  it  matter?”  he  muttered  to  himself,  as  he 
went  away  from  the  house  with  the  darkness  falling  over 
him.  “What  does  it  matter  what  becomes  of  me,  now 
that  Daisy  is  dead  and  gone?  Geraldine  loves  me,  why 
should  I not  marry  her?  It  would  be  a sort  of  retribution 
to  Daisy,  I think,  to  bind  my  life  to  a woman  whom  I know 
I do  not  love.” 

It  never  occurred  to  him  to  look  beyond  that  sacrifice  at 
the  altar  to  the  long  train  of  events  that  might  follow 
it.  He  thought  nothing  of  the  lifelong  companionship  with 
that  woman  whom  he  did  not  love.  He  thought  not  of  the 
mask  it  would  force  him  to  wear,  and  of  the  hourly  dam 
ger  there  would  be  of  dropping  that  mask,  and  of  the  ter- 
rible discord  that  would  come  from  it. 


daisy  daerell. 


He  only  remembered  that  “ Daisy  was  dead  and  gone;’1 
he  only  thought  that  it  “ did  not  matter  what  became  of 
him.” 

So  in  a reckless  mood  he  awaited  the  day  when  the 
Sacrifice  should  be  made,  when  he  should  bind  his  life, 
through  the  marriage  vow,  to  Geraldine  Fitzgerald. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

“ IF  THERE  IS  ANY  REASON  WHY  AN  HONEST  MAN  SHOULD 
NOT  TAKE  YOU  AS  HIS  WIFE!” 

Three  weeks  had  passed  since  John  Goldman  had  lifted 
Daisy  from  the  roadside,  and  had  borne  her  to  his  mother’s 
house;  and  three  weeks,  lacking  two  days,  had  passed 
since  the  form  of  the  drowned  woman  had  been  laid  in  its 
last  resting-place  in  the  quiet  cemetery. 

Poor  wreck  of  womanhood!  Who  she  had  been,  or 
what  she  had  been,  it  matters  not  here ; her  very  name 
had  perished  from  the  earth. 

For  two  weeks  a slender  shaft  of  marble,  infinitely 
whiter,  mayhap,  than  her  life  had  been,  had  gleamed  over 
her  grave,  erected  by  Clifford  Bancroft. 

It  bore  no  inscription  save  the  simple  word  cut  in  a 
wreath  of  carved  snow-drops : 

“Daisy.” 

For  three  weeks  the  death  angel  had  hovered  over  the 
home  of  the  Widow  Goldman,  threatening,  from  hour  to 
hour,  to  cut  the  thread  of  Daisy  Bancroft’s  life;  but,  mer- 
cifully or  unmercifully,  as  time  was  destined  to  prove,  the 
shears  refused  to  sever  the  frail  cord. 

Little  by  little  Daisy  came  back  to  consciousness. 

In  her  delirium  she  had  prattled  of  her  childhood  al- 
ways, but  strangely  enough  she  did  not  mention  Pine- 
lands,  nor  any  member  of  the  family  there. 

And  never  once  did  the  name  of  Clifford  Bancroft  fall 
from  her  lips. 

During  that  time  of  helplessness  Mrs.  Goldman  was  the 
most  attentive  of  nurses.  Not  a day  passed  in  which,  in  a 
brusque  way,  she  had  not  uttered  some  invective  against 
her  son  for  “ picking  up  sick  women  on  the  highway  and 
thrusting  them  on  her  to  nurse,”  but  John  understood  her, 
and  he  would  smile  in  her  wrinkled  face,  and  say : 

“I  didn’t  dare  to  do  anything  else,  mother.  You 
wouldn’t  have  owned  me  as  your  son  if  I had  not  brought 
the  poor,  pretty  little  thing  here.” 

“The  mischief  I wouldn’t!”  the  old  lady  responded 
gruffly.  “I  nurse  her  because  I want  her  to  get  well 
enough  to  go  back  to  her  mother,  if  she  has  one.” 


58  DAISY  DARRELL. 

Her  voice  softened  as  she  said  that,  and  she  smoothed 
the  pillow  on  which  the  flaxen  head  rested  with  a mother’s 
tender  touch. 

John  Goldman  looked  wistfully  into  the  pale  face  lying 
there  for  a minute,  and  then  he  turned  his  mild  gray  eyes 
on  his  mother. 

“She  may  not  have  any  mother  or  any  home  of  her 
own,  and  if  she  hasn’t  I believe  you  would  be  willing  for 
me  to  share  mine  with  her.” 

He  twined  his  arm  around  his  mother’s  waist  and  drew 
her  close  to  him  as  he  said  that. 

A look  of  indecision  for  an  instant  came  into  the  old 
lady’s  bright  and  still  comely  face,  and  then  she  drew  her 
self  with  a jerk  from  her  son’s  encircling  arm. 

11  I don't  want  to  hear  any  foolishness  about  this  girl, 
John  Goldman,”  she  said  menacingly.  “Asa  fellow-being 
in  trouble,  I am  willing  to  take  care  of  her  as  long  as  she 
needs  care,  but  no  longer.  As  soon  as  she  is  able  to  budge 
out  of  this  house,  I mean  for  her  to  go.  What  do  you 
know  about  her  ? Sho  may  be,  for  aught  you  know  to  the 
contrary,  the  vilest  little  wretch  in  New  York.  So  don't 
let  me  hear  any  nonsense  from  you  about  her!” 

It  was  one  of  the  few  occasions  when  her  unkind  words 
were  thoroughly  earnest  words,  and  John  knew  it,  and 
held  his  peace,  but  for  all  that  the  settled  conviction  which 
had  come  to  him  in  regard  to  their  beautiful  invalid  was 
not  shaken. 

That  conviction  was  that  she  was  pure  and  good,  and 
that  she  had  come  to  be  necessary  to  his  happiness. 

From  the  moment  he  had  seen  her  lying  like  a broken 
lily  on  the  roadside,  and  had  lifted  her  in  his  strong  arms, 
he  had  loved  her. 

“If  she  will  stay,  I will  not  let  her  go,”  he  said  to  him- 
self as  he  walked  out  toward  the  stables  a few  minutes 
afterward  in  the  mellow  glow  of  the  September  sunset. 
“ As  soon  as  she  is  well  enough  she  will  explain  everything 
to  mother,  and  mother— bless  her  kind  old  heart,  will  be 
reconciled.” 

With  a warm  thrill  at  his  heart  John  told  himself  this; 
never  once  suspecting  how  impassable  was  the  barrier 
which  lay  between  himself  and  the  young  stranger  on 
whose  purity  he  would  have  staked  his  life. 

His  words  to  his  mother  that  evening  had  thrown  a flood 
of  light  into  his  mother’s  mind,  and  she  was  startled  by  the 
discovery  that  her  great-hearted,  unromantic  boy  had  fallen 
in  love  with  the  beautiful  waif  an  untimely  fortune  had 
thrown  under  her  roof, 

“ She  is  young,  and  she  has  a strong  constitution,  and 
she  will  soon  rally,”  the  old  lady  muttered  to  herself, 


DAISY  DARRELL,  59 

“and  just  as  soon  as  she  is  well  enough  to  leave,  I will 
send  her  away,  the  troublesome  young  baggage  I” 

In  the  stillness  and  loneliness  of  that  same  night,  Daisy 
awoke  to  consciousness — to  a full  and  bitter  memory  of  the 
incidents  which  had  led  to  her  flight  from  the  vine- 
wreathed  cottage,  and  from  the  protection  of  the  husband 
who  had  shown  himself  so  tired  of  her,  so  treacherous  to 
her. 

Where  she  was  she  did  not  know— but  the  room  was  not 
unfamiliar  to  her  as  she  stared  at  its  appointments  in  the 
dim  light  of  the  night-lamp.  Consciousness  had  returned 
so  slowly  to  her,  like  the  gradual  brightening  of  the  dawn, 
that  she  had,  in  an  unthinking  way,  become  accustomed  to 
her  surroundings  by  the  time  that  bitter  wave  of  memory 
swept  over  her. 

She  stirred  uneasily,  and  a sobbing  moan  broke  from 
her. 

In  an  instant,  Mrs.  Goldman,  who  was  sleeping  on  a 
lounge  beside  the  bed,  was  awake,  and  was  bending  over 
her. 

“Do  you  want  anything?”  she  asked. 

Daisy  gazed  wistfully  up  at  her. 

That  face,  with  its  classical  features  and  bright  black 
eyes,  did  not  seem  new  to  her— she  had  become  accustomed 
to  it,  as  she  had  to  the  room. 

She  reached  up  her  trembling  hand  and  placed  it  on  the 
old  lady’s  shoulder. 

“ You  have  been  kind  to  me,”  she  said  in  a weak,  broken 
voice.  “But  who  are  you,  and  how  did  I come  here?” 

“ My  son  found  you  fainting  on  the  roadside  and  brought 
you  here  three  weeks  ago.  Now  don’t  talk  any  more,  but 
go  to  sleep,”  Mrs.  Goldman  responded  peremptorily  but  not 
unkindly. 

Daisy  was  too  weak  to  contend,  even  if  she  had  been  in- 
clined to  do  so,  so  she  closed  her  eyes  wearily,  and  in  a 
few  minutes  dozed  off  again. 

John  brought  her  delicate  breakfast  to  her  the  next 
morning,  with  his  honest  face  aglow  with  delight  at  the 
report  his  mother  had  given  him  of  their  patient’s  improved 
condition. 

Daisy  looked  at  him  as  he  placed  the  waiter  on  a table 
beside  the  bed,  and  a rush  of  tears — the  first  she  had  shed 
since  that  terrible  revelation  at  the  opera — came  into  her 
blue  eyes. 

She  lifted  her  arms  and  extended  both  her  hands  to  him, 
crying  out  brokenly,  like  a wounded  child : 

“ I am  so  glad  you  have  come.  I know  you;  you  have 
been  with  me  all  the  time.  You  are  my  friend,  aren’t 
you?” 


60  DAISY  DARRELL. 

John  Goldman  clasped  the  pleading  little  hands  in  his, 
and  said  soothingly,  while  a mist  gathered  in  his  own  eyes: 

“ Yes,  I am  your  friend.  I will  be  your  friend  as  long 
as  I live.  I will  never  forsake  you— never  I” 

He  was  startled  at  the  effect  his  words  had  on  her,  for 
she  burst  into  a passion  of  tears,  crying  out  vehemently : 

“Yes.  you wilt  forsake  me ! J3e?forsook  me,  and  I trusted 
him  so  r 

Poor  John  was  terrified,  and  being  overcome,  as  most 
good  men  are,  at  the  sight  of  a woman’s  tears,  he  was  con- 
strained to  do  the  wisest  thing  possible  under  the  circum- 
stances— he  remained  silent,  holding  her  fluttering  little 
hands  in  his  until  her  paroxysm  of  grief  had  subsided. 

Then  he  urged  her  to  eat,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of 
seeing  her  partake  of  a few  mouthfuls. 

After  that  her  recovery  was  gradual,  and  it  was  two 
weeks  before  she  was  able  to  sit  up  and  to  walk  about  the 
house. 

During  those  weeks  Mrs.  Goldman  gave  vent  to  her  cu- 
riosity, and  questioned  her  closely  about  herself. 

“Please  don’t  ask  me  to  tell  you  how  I happen  to  be  so 
friendless,”  Daisy  said  pleadingly.  “ My  name  is  Daisy; 
call  me  that,  it  is  the  one  my  mother  gave  me,  and  the 
only  one  I claim.  I am  alone  in  the  world.  I haven’t  a 
friend.” 

John  Goldman,  standing  outside  the  window,  heard  that 
pathetic  assertion,  and  he  shook  his  head  and  muttered: 

“You  have  got  one  friend,  at  least,  and  you’ll  never  have 
less  while  John  Goldman  lives.” 

That  night  he  had  a long  conversation  with  his  mother, 
and  what  he  told  her  angered  and  troubled  the  old  lady- 
more  than  anything  he  had  ever  said  in  his  whole  life  be- 
fore had  done. 

It  was,  that  he  loved  Daisy,  and  be  she  who  or  what  she 
was,  he  would  marry  her  if  she  would  have  him. 

He  was  gentle  but  firm  in  his  maintenance  of  that  resolve 
—and  his  mother  found  herself  unable  to  shake  it. 

“ I will  speak  very  plainly  to  the  young  baggage,”  the 
old  lady  muttered  angrily,  when  John  had  gone  to  his  own 
room  leaving  her  alone  in  hers. 

It  was  not  late — and  with  the  burden  on  her  mind  she 
could  not  sleep — so  she  went  to  the  little  chamber  where 
Daisy  was  lying  wakeful  and  restless  on  her  bed. 

“ I have  come  to  tell  you  something,”  Mrs.  Goldman  said 
in  her  blunt  way,  seating  herself  on  the  side  of  the  bed. 
“ My  son  has  fallen  headlong  in  love  with  you,&and  says 
he  intends  to  marry  you— and  as  I don’t  know  anything 
about  you,  and  you  won’t  tell  anything  about  yourself,  I 
come  to  beg  you  as  a mother,  and  as  a friend  who  was  kind 


DAISY  DARRELL . 


61 


to  you  in  a time  of  need — not  to  repay  that  kindness  by  im- 
posing on  the  weakness  of  my  son.  If  you  have  not  been 
♦vhat  you  ought  to  have  been— if  there  is  any  reason  why 
an  honest  man  should  not  take  you  as  his  wife,  I come  to 
ask  you  that  you  will  go  away  and  not  let  John  know 
where  you  are  gone— for  I believe  he  is  so  much  infatuated 
with  you  that  he  would  follow  you  to  perdition.” 

Daisy’s  eyes  were  wide  with  horror. 

She  remembered  that  she  was  a wedded  wife — that, 
under  the  circumstances,  John  Goldman’s  pure  love  was  a 
thing  unholy  for  her. 

‘‘Oh,  no,  no;  he  must  not  think  of  such  a thing  I”  she 
cried,  shrinking  and  trembling.  “ I will  go  away  some- 
where— I don’t  know  where.” 

It  never  occurred  to  Mrs.  Goldman  that  she  would  put 
her  resolve  into  execution  that  night,  and  she  was  con- 
science-stricken and  remorseful  the  next  morning  when 
she  discovered  that,  in  her  still  enfeebled  bodily  condition, 
Daisy  had  stolen  away  in  the  darkness,  leaving  no  clew  as 
to  the  direction  in  which  she  had  departed. 

“ God  help  the  poor  child!”  Mrs.  Goldman  muttered; 
“ she  will  die  by  the  wayside  I” 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

“ I WILL  GO  BACK  TO  CLIFFORD!” 

When  Mrs.  Goldman  left  Daisy’s  room  that  night,  after 
having  made  that  appeal  to  her,  it  was  nearly  midnight. 

For  a long  time  Daisy  lay,  with  her  arm  thrown  over  her 
eyes,  thinking. 

The  revelation  made  by  Mrs.  Goldman  of  the  state  of  her 
son’s  heart  had  been  a surprise,  a shock  to  her,  for  she  had 
never  suspected  it.  But  as  she  lay  there,  unconsciously 
reviewing  the  days  she  had  passed  under  the  same  roof  with 
John  Goldman,  she  wondered  at  her  own  blindness.  She 
knew  now  that  his  great  heart  had  shone  in  his  eyes 
whenever  he  had  bent  them  upon  her. 

“ It  is  because  I think  so  much  of  Clifford  that  I have  no 
room  in  my  mind  for  any  one  else,  ” she  muttered. 

Then  she  forgot  John  Goldman,  and  began  to  think  with 
absorbing  intensity  of  Clifford  Bancroft.  She  went  over 
in  memory  every  hour  of  her  acquaintance  with  him.  She 
recalled  to  mind  every  tender  word,  every  soft  glance  he* 
had  bestowed  upon  her. 

Her  heart  thrilled  and  melted  with  the  power  of  those 
dear,  remembered  days  until,  for  the  time,  every  drop  of 
bitterness  toward  him  was  gone. 

She  pictured  him  now — and  oh,  how  sweet  it  was  to 


62 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


dream  so— as  being  true  to  her,  as  being  bowed  with  grief 
at  her  loss,  as  searching  for  her  far  and  wide. 

For  the  first  time  since  she  had  left  the  little  vine- 
wreathed  cottage,  she  reproached  herself  for  having  done 
so. 

She  began  to  make  excuses  for  him ; she  began  to  com- 
fort herself,  and  to  strengthen  her  faith  in  him  by  feeding 
her  mind  on  pleasant  possibilities. 

“Our  marriage  was  secret,  no  one  knew  of  it,  so  he 
could  not  well  have  avoided  paying  some  attention  to  Ger- 
aldine, he  knew  her  so  well,  and,  of  course,  she  expected 
it  from  him.  Then  the  report  of  their  going  to  be  married 
was  nothing  but  gossip.  I was  a little  fool  to  pay  any  at- 
tention to  it.  And,  in  consequence  of  a piece  of  sheer  non- 
sense, I have  almost  killed  myself,  and  brought  a world 
of  trouble  on  Clifford.” 

Clifford  was  not  the  only  one  she  had  brought  trouble 
on,  and  she  remembered  it  at  that  instant  with  an  addi- 
tional pang  of  self-reproach. 

She  knew  that  she  had  brought  the  sorrow  of  a hopeless 
love  on  great-hearted  John  Goldman. 

“ He  will  get  over  it,  and  forget  me  when  I am  gone,” 
she  said  to  herself.  “I  will  go  away,  and  he  shall  lose  all 
trace  of  me — all  reminder  of  me.  I will  go  back  to  Clifford, 
and  tell  him  how  sorry  I am  for  having  believed  what  the 
man  said  at  the  opera  about  his  going  to  marry  Geraldine, 
and  for  running  away  in  consequence,  and  giving  him  all 
the  trouble  I have.” 

She  had  arisen,  and  was  making  her  toilet  with  trem- 
bling, eager  hands,  and  her  whole  being  was  thrilled  with 
an  ecstasy  of  renewed  hope  and  faith  brought  on  by  the 
sudden  revulsion  of  sentiment  toward  her  husband. 

She  donned  the  pretty  shawl  and  hat  which  had  been 
among  the  useful  articles  Mrs.  Goldman  had  furnished  in 
the  wardrobe,  which,  in  the  kindness  of  her  heart,  she  had 
bestowed  on  the  poverty-stricken  girl ; and  then  she  went 
to  the  window  and  drew  back  the  curtains,  and  looked  out 
on  the  night. 

The  stars  were  disappearing  from  the  sk}^,  and  were 
dim,  like  eyes  filmy  with  sleep,  and  the  trees  in  the  yard 
stood  in  the  faint  light  like  indistinct  shadows;  and  over 
everything  the  gloom  was  momentarily  deepening. 

But  the  prospect  did  not  dismay  Daisy ; it  did  not  deter 
her  even  for  an  instant  from  climbing  through  the  window 
and  speeding  away  as  fast  as  her  small  feet  would  carry 
her. 

She  took  the  road  which  she  knew  led  to  the  great  city. 
It  was  the  goal  of  her  journey,  and  she  looked  forward  to 
entering  it  with  the  wildest  delight. 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


63 


She  was  of  such  a highly  emotional  nature  that  her  sud- 
denly recovered  faith  in  her  husband  was  as  strong  as  her 
distrust  of  him  had  been  before. 

An  idea  was  with  her  that  she  would  find  him  in  the 
little  vine-wreathed  cottage  waiting  and  watching  for  her 
to  come  back  to  him,  and  she  longed  for  wings  that  she 
might  fly  over  the  space  separating  her  from  him. 

She  went  on  and  on;  the  stars,  one  by  one,  dropped 
asleep  on  the  sky,  and  the  gloom  of  the  rayless  hour  pre- 
ceding the  dawn  fell  over  her. 

The  wind  blew  against  her,  cold  and  damp  and  dis- 
couraging, but  no  ominous  feature  of  nature  could  at  that 
moment  dim  the  luster  of  her  hope,  the  brightness  of  her 
anticipations. 

Like  a swiftly  moving  shadow  among  shadows,  she  made 
her  way  steadily  forward,  and  after  awhile  a hint  of  gray 
came  into  the  darkness  through  which  she  wandered — there 
was  a little  thrill,  a little  flutter  ;in  the  silence,  as  if  the 
world  stirred  in  its  sleep ; and  the  gray  grew  grayer,  and 
an  early  bird  suddenly  began  to  sing  in  a tree  under  which 
Daisy  was  passing,  and  seemed  to  wake  Nature  with  a 
flood  of  joyous  melody. 

On  and  on— eager  and  light  of  heart,  with  glad  antici- 
pations, Daisy  went,  feeling  no  sense  of  fatigue— keeping 
no  count  of  the  miles  over  which  her  little  feet  passed. 

The  gray  of  the  day  took  a hint  of  crimson.  Nature  was 
blushing  at  the  coming  of  her  radiant  god — the  sun;  and 
the  pure,  crisp  morning  air  was  tainted  with  the  foul 
breath  of  the  great  city,  through  the  suburbs  of  which 
Daisy  was  now  moving  rapidly. 

In  the  excitement  that  was  over  her,  her  feet  seemed 
scarcely  to  touch  the  ground,  for  she  was  drawing  every 
moment  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  little  vine-wreathed 
cottage. 

She  came  in  sight  of  it  at  last  and  she  uttered  a glad 
cry  as  its  gables  and  chimneys  were  uplifted  in  the  distance 
before  her  in  the  morning  sunlight. 

She  quickened  her  steps  so  that  she  ran  over  the  space 
intervening  between  her  and  it. 

With  eager  hands  she  pulled  open  the  little  gate  and  ran 
up  the  gravel  walk  to  the  door. 

She  turned  the  knob,  but  the  door  was  locked,  and  she 
tremulously  sounded  a loud  peal  on  the  bell. 

A moment  after  the  door  was  opened  by  some  one  who 
was  passing  through  the  hall — but  it  was  not  Clifford— it 
was  not  even  Bridget,  and  a sickening  sensation  of  disap- 
pointment swept  through  poor  Daisy  as  she  looked  info 
the  face  of  this  strange  woman. 


64 


daisy  Darrell. 


“I  want  to  see  Mr.  Bancroft— Mr.  Clifford  Bancroft,11 
she  said,  clutching  her  hands  together. 

The  woman  had  a hard,  shrewish  face,  and  a hard, 
shrewish  voice. 

“ There  is  no  one  of  that  name  living  here,”  she  said. 

“But  he  did  live  here— he  and  Bridget  Conner,  too,” 
Daisy  said,  pleadingly.  ‘ ‘ Can’t  you  tell  me  where  they  have 
gone.” 

“No,  I cannot!”  the  woman  said,  curtly.  “I  never 
heard  of  either  of  them  before.” 

She  shut  the  door  as  she  spoke,  and  Daisy  leaned  faint 
and  trembling  against  it.  All  her  strength  was  gone,  and 
in  the  bitterness  of  her  disappointment  she  felt  as  if  she 
would  die. 

She  sank  down  on  the  step  and  waited  for  a minute  or 
two  to  recover  her  self-possession. 

She  was  only  terribly  disappointed  in  not  finding  Clif- 
ford there  to  welcome  her,  as  the  father  did  the  returned 
prodigal  of  old,  but  her  renewed  faith  in  him  was  not  de- 
stroyed. 

She  would  look  for  him  in  the  city,  she  thought,  and  she 
arose  and  went  away  down  the  gravel  walk  again.  But 
how  heavy  now  seemed  her  feet,  which  had  been  so  light 
when  she  bounded  over  that  same  way  only  a few  minutes 
before ; she  could  scarcely  drag  them  along. 

And  how  weary  she  was ; it  seemed  to  her  that  she  must 
sink  with  exhaustion  at  every  step.  She  would  stop  and 
rest  somewhere,  if  she  could  only  find  some  quiet,  retired 
place. 

She  halted  and  looked  around.  She  was  in  front  of  a 
church,  and  the  doors  and  windows  were  open,  as  if  it  were 
being  aired. 

“ I will  see  if  I can’t  rest  in  there,”  she  thought,  and  she 
stole  in,  her  small  feet  falling  noiselessly  on  the  rich,  thick 
carpet. 

There  was  only  one  person  in  the  church,  and  he  did  not 
notice  her.  He  was  busily  engaged  in  adorning  the  altar 
with  devices  made  of  cut  flowers. 

Daisy  shrunk  into  a corner  behind  the  door  and  lay 
down. 

“ There  is  to  be  a wedding  she  thought,  listlessly  notic- 
ing a monogram  of  tuberoses  over  the  altar.  The  letters 
were  B4  F. 

Oh,  Sow  tired,  how  weak  she  was ! She  could  not  keep 
her  eyes  open.  The  man  and  the  flowers  as  she  stared  at 
them  seemed  to  be  skipping  about  from  place  to  place— 
sometimes  disappearing,  and  then  popping  into  sight  again. 
But  after  a few  minutes  they  disappeared  for  good,  and 
she  was  asleep. 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


6? 


She  dreamed  of  Clifford,  and  he  seemed  to  be  praying  on 
Come  fine,  sweet  musical  instrument  for  her  an  sd1*  that 
thrilled  her  with  its  melody. 

She  woke  with  a start  as  the  music  ceased. 

Where  was  she?  For  a moment  she  could  not  collect  her 
thoughts,  and  in  her  hidden  corner  she  stared  at  the 
crowd  of  elegantly  dressed  people  who  had  come  into  the 
edifice  since  she  had  fallen  asleep  there  behind  the  door. 

Ah,  she  remembered  now;  she  had  dropped  into  the 
church  to  rest,  and  a man  was  adorning  it  for  a wedding. 

The  marriage  was  taking  place  at  this  very  moment. 

“ If  any  one  knows  why  these  two  should  not  be  joined 
together  let  him  now  speak  or  forever  after  hold  his 
peace.” 

Those  words,  or  words  to  that  effect,  she  heard,  and  in 
the  brief  pause  the  clergyman  made  after  uttering  them, 
she  glanced  at  the  two  to  whom  those  words  referred— the 
two  who  were  being  joined  together  in  the  holy  bonds  of 
wedlock. 

As  she  did  so,  she  seemed  to  be  turned  into  stone. 

In  those  two  she  recognized  Geraldine  Fitzgerald  and 
Clifford  Bancroft ! 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

“i  WILL  LIVE  FOR  VENGEANCE!” 

Seeing  who  the  high  contracting  parties  taking  that 
solemn  vow  at  the  altar  were,  Daisy  tried  to  rise  to  her 
feet,  to  utter  a loud  protest  against  the  foul  wrong  that 
was  being  perpetrated  against  her  and  against  that  other 
woman.  But  the  sudden  shock  had  paralyzed  her  limbs 
and  had  deadened  her  voice,  so  that  the  words  she  would 
have  uttered  died  in  a low,  hoarse  gurgle  in  her  throat. 

In  the  shadow  of  the  obscure  corner  in  which  she  was 
hidden,  but  which  commanded  a plain  view  of  the  altar, 
she  remained  in  the  position  to  which  she  had  sprung,  and 
which  was  a kneeling  one,  and  stared,  wide-eyed  and  dumb, 
at  the  couple  whom  in  a minute’s  time  she  heard  the 
clergyman  pronounce  “ man  and  wife.” 

“Whom  God  hath  joined  together,  let  no  man  put 
asunder !” 

As  those  words  of  solemn  import  came  to  her,  she  drew 
a long,  shivering  breath,  and  whispered,  but  in  a voice  as 
low  as  the  hum  of  a butterfly’s  wings : 

“Not  God!  not  God!” 

When  they  came  down  the  flower-scented  aisle,  with  the 
bride  blushing  but  radiant,  and  the  bridegroom  strangely 
pale  and  stern-looking,  an  insane  impulse  came  over  her  to 
rush  to  them  and  tear  them  apart,  proclaiming  him  her 


$6 


t>AISY  DARRELL 


own  lawfully  wedded  husband ; but  still  that 

paralysis  held  her  limbs  and  deadened  her  voice.  ‘So,  al 
unsuspicious  of  the  presence  of  that  terrible  witness,  they 
passed  slowly  down  the  aisle  to  the  strains  of  the  Wedding 
March,  and  disappeared  from  her  sight  through  the  open 
doorway. 

The  crowd  followed  in  their  wake,  and  in  a few  minutes 
she  only  remained  in  the  shadow  of  the  flower-wreathed, 
flower-scented  church,  where  the  gilded  cross  at  the  altar, 
gleaming  in  spots  as  the  light  fell  on  it,  stared  at  her,  and 
the  gilded  inscription  proclaimed  to  her,  “Thou  shalt  not 
glory  save  in  the  cross.” 

The  sexton  came  in  to  close  the  church,  and  seeing  her 
there  kneeling  behind  the  door,  and  staring  forlornly,  he 
grasped  her  shoulder  and  shook  her,  saying  gruffly : 

“ Get  out  of  here ! What  are  you  doing  here  ?” 

As  if  his  rough  touch  had  set  her  stagnant  blood  into 
motion  and  had  relaxed  her  strained  muscles,  she  arose 
staggeringly  to  her  feet,  and  went  out  of  the  church  where 
such  a terrible  revelation  had  come  to  her,  and  passed 
slowly  down  the  street. 

Her  thinking  faculties,  however,  seemed  still  to  remain 
paralyzed.  Her  mind  was  incapable  of  receiving  any  idea. 
She  was  filled  only  with  the  picture  of  that  marriage  scene,, 
the  very  slightest  feature  of  which  seemed  to  be  seared  as; 
it  were  with  a red-hot  iron  on  her  memory. 

She  met  and  passed  people  by  on  the  street  as  if  they 
were  shadows.  They  were  nothing  to  her — in  all  the 
universe  of  God  there  was  nothing  to  interest  her  now  ex- 
cept that  marriage  rite  in  the  flower- wreathed,  flower- 
scented  church. 

How  long  she  walked  she  did  not  know— she  did  not 
know,  either,  that  she  was  in  need  of  food,  for  she  had 
eaten  nothing  since  the  night  before— but  a sudden  faint- 
ness came  over  her — she  grew  blind;  she  reeled,  and  would 
have  fallen  but  that  a strong  arm  was  thrown  around  her, 
and  her  head  rested  on  a broad  breast  until  the  momentary 
darkness  passed  away. 

“Are  you  ill?” 

The  question  was  asked  in  a strong,  anxious  voice,  and 
Daisy  tried  to  answer  it,  but  she  could  not ; it  seemed  to 
her  that  she  should  never  be  able  to  speak  again . 

She  looked  helplessly  up  into  the  face  of  the  man,  and 
as  she  did  so,  she  instinctively  tried  to  withdraw  herself 
from  his  arms,  but  she  was  not  strong  enough  to  stand  un- 
supported. 

His  face  was  repulsive  to  her,  and  yet  it  was  not  an  un- 
kind face;  it  was  only  a dissipated,  reckless-looking  one. 

“ Let  me  take  you  into  my  house  here;  you  are  just  in 


DAISY  DARRELL . 6? 

front  of  it,”  he  said,  4 4 and  I will  give  you  a glass  of  wine. 
It  will  refresh  you.” 

He  threw  his  arms  around  her,  and  lifted  her  as  if  she 
had  been  a very  light  child  and  so  bore  her  into  the  house 
before  which  they  had  been  standing,  placed  her  on  a sofa, 
-and  then  went  for  a glass  of  wine  which  he  brought  from 
<a  neighboring  sideboard. 

“Drink  this,”  he  said  commandingly,  but  very  kindly, 
^and  she  mechanically  obeyed  him. 

Then,  without  taking  any  further  notice  of  him  or  his 
surroundings,  she  lay  back  on  the  sofa  and  closed  her  eyes 
as  if  she  were  going  to  sleep. 

But  she  was  not,  she  was  only  going  to  think. 

The  wine,  with  its  invigorating  influence,  had  broken  the 
lethargic  spell  which  was  over  her. 

In  the  course  of  that  day  her  whole  nature  had  under- 
gone a revolution. 

She  was  no  longer  a loving,  guileless  child.  She  was  a 
woman,  wronged,  insulted,  and  direfully  revengeful ! 

Yes,  she  would  be  revenged  upon  Clifford  Bancroft.  If 
life  was  spared  her,  he  should  suffer  pang  for  pang  what 
he  had  made  her  suffer. 

“ Henceforth,”  she  said,  “ I will  live  for  vengeance,  and 
vengeance  only !” 

There  was  no  one  in  the  room  with  her,  but  in  the  ad- 
joining apartment  there  seemed  to  be  quite  a party — and  a 
very  noisy  party,  too ; for  boisterous  laughter  came  from 
the  lips  of  both  men  and  women,  and  loud  words  not  un- 
mixed with  oaths— and  they,  too,  were  often  in  the  silvery 
accents  of  a woman’s  voice.  Through  all  came  the  clink 
of  glasses,  and  the  popping  of  corks  drawn  from  bottles. 

Daisy  heard  all  this  unthinkingly,  uncaringly. 

What  was  it  to  her  what  any  one  should  do,  saving  only 
Clifford  Bancroft,  and  Geraldine  Fitzgerald,  whom  she  had 
heard  the  robed  clergyman  pronounce  his  wife. 

After  awhile  some  one  opened  the  door  of  communication 
between  the  room  she  occupied  and  that  other  noisy  apart- 
ment, and  entered  and  closed  and  locked  it  after  him  again, 
and  came  up  and  seated  himself  on  the  sofa  beside  her. 

He  had  been  drinking,  for  thr3  fume  of  wine  was  on  his 
breath,  and  its  sparkle  m his  eyes  as  he  turned  his  face 
upon  her. 

He  reached  out  and  took  her  hand,  but  she  drew  it  from 
him,  with  the  delicacy  of  her  nature  asserting  itself  so  plainly 
in  the  movement  that  he  could  not  but  notice  it,  but  he 
was  too  much  intoxicated  to  heed  it. 

“ Don’t  shrink  from  me,  sweetheart,”  he  said  with  tender 
reproach.  “This  place  is  Devenant’s  Dance  House,  and 
X am  Devenant,  There  are  a score  of  other  young  ladies 


68  DAISY  DARRELL . 

here,  but  none  of  them  interest  me.  I am  going  to  keep 
you  for  my  queen.” 

He  bent  over  as  if  to  kiss  her,  but  she  sprung  to  her 
feet. 

4 ‘Show  me  the  way  out  of  this  house  1”  she  cried  out,  her 
eyes  and  cheeks  glowing  with  righteous  wrath.  “You  are 
a coward  to  insult  a girl  as  weak  and  friendless  and  poor 
as  I am !” 

Her  face  quivered  and  she  broke  into  a passion  of  tears, 
hiding  her  eyes  on  her  arm,  and  sobbing  convulsively. 

Dan  Devenant  had  been  all  his  life  wild  and  reckless,  but 
he  was  not  wholly  bad  at  heart;  there  were  generous  im- 
pulses in  his  nature  which  vibrated  strongly  when  they 
were  skillfully  touched. 

They  were  touched  now  by  Daisy’s  words  and  tears. 
Like  all  men  of  his  class  he  respected  a pure  woman 
beyond  everything  else  on  earth,  and  the  sight  of  this 
beautiful,  helpless  girl,  trembling  and  weeping  there  before 
him,  sobered  him. 

He  drew  back  a step  further  from  her. 

“ I beg  your  pardon,”  he  said,  humbly.  “ I was  a little 
in  wine,  or  I would  not  have  spoken  so.  Of  course,  you 
may  go  away,  for  this  is  no  place  for  such  as  you,  but  let 
me  give  you  something  to  eat  first.  I will  bring  it  to  you 
here  myself,  and  you  need  not  be  afraid  that  you  will  meet 
with  any  further  rudeness  under  this  roof.” 

With  the  intuition  natural  to  women  and  children  where 
human  nature  is  concerned,  Daisy  felt  that  she  could 
indeed  trust  him.  So  she  thanked  him,  and  dried  her  ey  es, 
and  sank  back  on  the  sofa  and  waited  for  the  meal  which 
she  knew  she  so  much  needed. 

There  came  suddenly  over  her  a memory  of  her  helpless- 
ness, of  her  destitution. 

While  she  waited  and  worked  for  the  vengeance  she  was 
determined  to  accomplish,  she  must  live — and  in  order  to 
live  she  must  have  food,  and  in  order  to  have  food  she 
must  work. 

But  what  could  she  do  and  who  would  employ  her? 

These  convictions,  like  lightning  flashes,  had  swept 
through  her  mind. 

There  was  a morning  paper  lying  on  the  marble  slab  of  a 
table  within  reach  of  her  hand. 

It  suggested  an  idea  to  her. 

She  would  look  over  the  column  of  “ Wants.”  Perhaps 
there  was  advertised  a situation  that  she  could  fill. 

Her  eyes  ran  down  the  list,  and  were  attracted  by  this : 

“ Companion  wanted.  Apply  at  247  Gray  Street.” 

Why  she  selected  that  particular  one  from  a number  of 


DAISY  DARRELL . 


6d 


others  she  did  not  know ; perhaps  she  was  guided  by  that 
peculiar  destiny  which  is  said  to  preside  over  the  lives  of 
men. 

Certain  it  is,  that  after  she  had  eaten  the  delightful  re- 

East  Dan  Devenant  served  for  her  with  his  own  hands,  and 
ad  thanked  him  for  it,  she  asked  him  to  direct  her  to 
Gray  Street;  and  when  he  had  done  so,  she  bade  him  good- 
bye, and  set  out  in  the  way  he  had  indicated,  resolved  to 
offer  herself  as  companion  to  somebody — she  had  no  idea 
and  no  care  who  it  might  be — “ at  No.  247*” 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

“ ‘NO.  247  GRAY  STREET  I’  ” 

It  was  a long,  long  journey,  or  so  it  seemed  to  Daisy’s 
tired  feet,  and  she  had  no  money  to  hire  a conveyance. 
So  she  walked  on,  inquiring  her  way  from  square  to  square. 

She  turned  into  Gray  Street  at  last,  and  she  set  herself 
to  find  No.  247. 

She  had  taken  no  note  of  time ; but  many  hours,  which 
seemed  to  her  like  an  eternity  almost,  had  passed  since  she 
had  looked  on  that  unholy  marriage-rite  which  bound  her 
own  husband  to  another  woman. 

She  thought  of  that  scene  all  the  time ; even  when  she 
was  mechanically  reading  the  numbers  of  the  houses  she 
passed  she  thought  of  it. 

“245  ” — “247.’’ 

She  had  found  it  at  last — No.  247 — and  she  halted  and 
stared  at  it  in  the  glow  of  the  dying  day,  for  the  gold  of 
the  sunset  was  fading  into  th  e gray  or  the  twilight. 

What  a gloomy -looking  old  place  it  was — this  number 
247 ! It  was  an  ancient  landmark,  and  it  seemed  queerly 
out  of  place  among  its  fashionable  neighbors,  whose  modern 
architecture  made  the  quaint,  weather-beaten,  time-stained 
house  appear  lonely  and  desolate,  like  something  which  had 
outlived  its  generation. 

It  was  very  large  and  built  of  brick ; and  it  had  been 
painted  a vivid  green  a great  many  years  ago,  but  it  was 
almost  black  now,  and  the  mold  clung  to  its  base,  and  the 
cobwebs  drooped  from  its  eaves.  The  windows  were  high 
and  small,  and  the  doors  were  narrow  and  shrunken. 

Daisy  was  too  thoroughly  miserable  to  be  depressed  by 
any  exterior  influences  of  time  or  place,  or  the  somberness 
of  247  would  have  struck  upon  her. 

As  it  was  she  pulled  open  the  heavy  gate  and  passed  up 
the  gravel- walk,  which  was  bordered  on  either  side  by  a 
thorny  hedge,  and  sounded  a decided  summons  on  the  old* 
fashioned  brass  knocker. 

The  door  was  opened  after  a minute  by  a young  woman 


DAISY  BARBELL. 


90 

who  would  have  been  exceedingly  beautiful  but  for  the 
vacant  expression  of  her  richly-tinted  face.  More  properly 
speaking,  perhaps,  her  expression  of  countenance  was  less 
vacant  than  it  was  bewildered. 

“ I have  called  because  of  an  advertisement  I saw  in  the 
paper,”  Daisy  said,  feeling  no  interest  in  the  young  woman, 
nor  in  her  beauty.  ‘ ‘ An  advertisement  for  a companion 
wanted  at  this  house — No.  247  G-ray  Street.” 

The  woman’s  dark,  Oriental  eyes  stared  perplexedly,  and 
a pucker  came  between  her  slender,  arched  brows. 

She  said  nothing,  and  Daisy,  after  waiting  for  a full 
minute,  repeated  the  question  impatiently,  putting  it  in 
more  explicit  words: 

“I  wish  to  see  the  person  who  advertised  for  a com- 
panion at  this  house.  Can  I see  her?” 

“ Her?”  the  woman  ejaculated,  and  then  added  in  broken 
sentences,  stopping  to  catch  her  breath  between  the  words: 
“ There  ain’t  nobody  living  here  but  jest  only  Dr.  Burnie. 
The  lady  and  gentleman  who  are  going  to  live  here  haven’t 
come  yet,  and  won’t  be  here  for  two  weeks.” 

The  woman  was  stupid,  and  Daisy  stepped  into  the  door- 
way and  said  irritably : 

“ Ask  Dr.  Burnie  if  he  will  see  me — I may  be  able  to  find 
out  from  him  what  I want  to  know.” 

The  woman  turned  sluggishly,  leaving  her  standing  there 
in  the  doorway,  while  she  went  down  the  long  hall,  and 
after  knocking  on  a door  at  the  furthest  end,  disappeared 
through  it. 

A few  minutes  afterward  she  reappeared,  and  going  to 
the  front  door  where  Daisy  was  still  standing,  bade  tier 
follow  to  Dr.  Burnie’s  room.  So,  one  leading  and  the  other 
following,  they  passed  down  the  long,  old-fashioned  hall, 
with  its  frescoed  walls  speaking  of  the  taste  of  a bygone 
age,  and  entered  a large  room  at  its  end. 

The  curtains  were  drawn  over  the  windows,  thereby 
intensifying  in  the  apartment  the  effects  of  the  twilight 
which  was  gathering  outside.  It  was  a handsomely  fur- 
nished room,  but  it  was  unmistakably  the  domicile  of  a 
gentleman,  for  the  odor  of  fine  tobacco  pervaded  it  strongly. 
There  were  a great  number  of  books  scattered  about  on 
elegantly  carved  shelves,  and  marble-topped  tables. 

On  a sofa  lounge  near  the  old-fashioned  fireplace,  a 
gentleman  was  lying,  puffing  soft  clouds  of  smoke  from  a 
pipe  of  some  queer,  Oriental  make. 

He  was  an  old  man,  short  and  square  and  bald ; and  his 
eyes,  which  were  dark  and  rather  prominent,  were  round 
and  staring,  like  one  who  strives  to  look  through  darkness. 
As  Daisy  entered  he  extended  his  small  hand  in  greeting 


DAISY  DARRELL . 71 

to  her,  but  with  that  inaccuracy  of  direction  peculiar  to 
the  blind. 

She  went  forward  and  placed  her  own  in  it,  and  his  fin- 
gers  closed  around  hers  with  a soft,  lingering  pressure. 

“Your  hand  indicates  to  me  that  you  are  young/' he 
said  with  a smile,  and  in  a low,  measured  voice.  “But 
my  eyes  don’t  assist  me  in  my  judgment,  for  I am  blind. 
Lucretia;  are  you  there,  Lucretia?^ 

Still  retaining  Daisy's  hand  in  his  gentle  clasp,  he  put 
the  question,  and  the  bewildered-looking  young  woman 
who  had  halted  at  the  door  made  answer: 

“Yes,  sir,  I’m  here.” 

“ Then  bring  a chair  for  the  lady,  and  place  it  here  be- 
fore me,”  he  said,  and  as  the  young  woman  did  so,  he 
released  Daisy’s  hand,  who  immediately  took  possession 
of  the  proffered  seat. 

Dr.  Burnie  leaned  his  head  against  the  back  of  the  sofa 
on  which  he  was  sitting,  and  closed  his  eyes,  and  said : 

“Lucretia  tells  me  that  you  came  in  answer  to  my  adver- 
tisement for  a companion.” 

“Yes,  sir,”  Daisy  answered.  “I  saw  it  in  the  paper,  and 
came  to  see  about  it,  as  I must  do  something ; but  I had 
expected  to  see  a lady  here.” 

He  smiled,  and  shook  his  head  in  a mournful  way. 

“A  lady  would  not  be  such  a helpless  person  as  a blind 
man  is,”  he  said.  “Men,  with  all  their  boasted  wisdom, 
have  fewer  mental  resources  for  self-entertainment,  I think, 
than  women.  Women  have  ingenuity  enough  to  employ 
themselves  pleasantly  in  some  way,  even  if  the  elysium  of 
vision  is  denied  them.  But  a man  is  helpless  under  these 
circumstances,  and  must  have  somebody  to  see  for  him,  or 
he  would  go  melancholy  mad.” 

Daisy  said  nothing- -his  affliction  did  not  touch  her;  his 
words  made  no  impression  on  her.  She  was  too  thoroughly 
absorbed  in  herself,  and  in  her  own  towering  adversities, 
to  give  a sentimental  thought  to  the  calamities  of  another. 

“I  have  had  a great  many  applications  for  the  place, ” 
Dr.  Burnie  went  on,  smiling  and  toying  with  the  stem  of 
his  now  extinguished  pipe,  “ but  none  of  them  came  up  to 
my  requirements  in  a companion.  First  of  all,  I want  a 
good  reader.” 

He  extended  his  hand  to  a table  near  by,  and  picked  up 
the  first  book  he  chanced  to  touch,  and  offered  it  to  her. 

“ I don’t  know  what  volume  this  is,”  he  said,  “ but  read 
to  me  from  it:  anything  you  please.” 

It  was  the  poems  of  Lord  Byron,  and  Daisy  opened  it  at 
random  and  began  to  read. 

The  poem  chanced  to  be  that  passionate  appeal,  begin* 

Ping: 


72 


Daisy  darrell. 


44  Fare  thee  well.” 

She  read  it  with  the  memory  of  Clifford  Bancroft’s  bro 
ken  faith  and  desertion  strong  upon  her,  forgetting  Dr. 
Burnie,  forgetting  everything  else  as  she  read,  and  when 
she  ended,  and  her  trembling  voice  throbbed  into  silence* 
the  old  man  drew  a long  breath. 

“Well  done !”  he  said.  44  Your  voice  is  clear  and  sweet; 
your  articulation  pure,  and  you  seem  to  enter  with  thor- 
ough zest  into  the  feeling  of  the  poet.  I have  heard  no 
reading  so  pleasing  to  me  in  the  three  years  of  my  blind- 
ness.” 

Daisy  said  nothing,  and,  after  a brief  silence,  he  asked : 

44  Do  you  understand  any  other  language  but  English?” 

4 4 No,  sir,”  she  answered.  44 1 don’t  understand  the  En- 
glish language  even.  I have  a very  limited  education.” 

“That  is  a pity,”  he  responded,  with  a shadow  coming 
over  his  face.  “But  you  have  time  enough  yet  for  im- 
proving your  mind,  I judge  that  you  are  very  young. 
You  won’t  mind  telling  an  old  man  like  me  your  age,  will 
you?”  he  added,  with  a smile. 

“ I will  be  seventeen  my  next  birthday,”  Daisy  said. 

“Ah,  you  are  nothing  but  a child,”  the  old  man  re- 
sponded. 44  You  have  much  to  learn,  and  much  time,  from 
the  course  of  nature,  to  learn  it  in.  What  is  your  name, 
and  where  is  your  home?” 

4 4 My  name  is  Daisy,”  she  answered,  speaking  drearily. 
“ I don’t  claim  any  name  but  that— the  one  my  mother 
gave  me — and  I have  no  home,  and  no  friends.  That  is 
why  I came  here  to  apply  for  the  position  of  companion. 
I must  earn  my  own  living.” 

With  his  eyes  closed,  Dr.  Burnie  seemed  to  be  pon- 
dering. 

44 1 think  the  blind  have  quicker  intuitions  than  persons 
who  see,”  he  said,  after  a while.  44 1 seem  to  have  a subtle 
way  of  knowing  when  anything  beautiful  or  pure  is  near 
me,  and  I feel  that  I can  trust  you.  A gentleman  who  un- 
derstands some  of  the  Oriental  languages  comes  and  reads 
to  me  every  Friday  evening.  So  I shall  be  satisfied  with 
your  interpretations  of  gems  of  English  literature.  Until 
a month  ago,  when  she  died,  my  sister,  a single  lady,  lived 
with  me,  and  I have  been  miserably  lonely  since  she  left 
me.  Lucretia  his  sad  tone  lightened,  and  he  smiled  as 
he  mentioned  the  name — “was  my  sister’s  maid,  and  is  a 
most  excellent  creature,  but  she  scarcely  possesses  that 
witchery  which  would  charm  a blind  man  into  forgetful 
ness  of  his  misfortune  So,  if  you  will  stay  with  me  I will 
pay  you  a salary  of  forty  dollars  per  month,  and  will  try 
not  to  be  very  troublesome  to  you.  Now  that  you  have 


DAISY  DARRELL.  73 

seen  me,  do  youv  think  you  could  undertake  such  a 
charge?” 

“Yes,  sir,  I shall  be  very  glad  to  stay,”  Daisy  answered. 

“It  will  be  a lonely  home  for  you  for  two  weeks.  When 
will  you  come?”  he  broke  off  to  ask,  as  if  suddenly  re- 
minded. 

“As  I told  you,  I have  no  home,”  Daisy  said,  “and  I 
will  stay  now,  if  you  will  let  me.” 

‘ ‘ Certainly,  certainly,  ” he  responded  heartily.  ‘ 4 Lucretia 
will  show  you  to  your  room,  but  before  you  go,  I will 
finish  what  I began  to  say.  For  two  weeks  you  will  be 
lonely  here,  I am  afraid,  but  at  the  expiration  of  that  time 
my  nephew  and  his  wife  will  live  with  me.  They  were 
married  this  morning,  and  have  gone  on  a bridal  tour.” 

“ Married  this  morning!” 

Daisy’s  heart  gave  a great  throb.  The  words  seemed  to 
be  a mention  or  the  couple  she  had  seen  go  through  the 
mockery  of  a marriage  that  morning. 

“What  is  your  nephew’s  name?”  she  asked  impulsively. 
And  she  seemed  to  be  turned  into  stone  again  as  she  had 
seemed  to  be  in  the  church  in  the  morning  as  he  answered : 

“Clifford  Bancroft,  and  he  married  Miss  Geraldine  Fitz- 
gerald, a beauty  from  Kentucky.” 

The  room  seemed  to  be  reeling,  and  the  twilight  gloom 
within  it  seemed  suddenly  to  be  blackened  into  a rayless 
night.  Then  it  passed  away  again,  and  she  saw  the  old  doc- 
tor there  before  her,4- and  heard  him  say,  as  one  hears 
things  in  a dream : 

“ Lucretia,  show  Miss  Daisy  to  her  room.” 

Then  she  arose,  and  followed  the  young  woman,  with  a 
feeling  of  numbness  over  her,  into  a cozy  little  room  up- 
stairs. 

“I  will  light  the  lamp,”  Lucretia  said,  while  Daisy  flung 
herself  into  a chair. 

When  the  lamp  was  lighted  and  the  woman  had  gone 
out  leaving  Daisy  alone,  she  arose  and  threw  herself  across 
the  bed,  and  for  a long  time  she  lay  motionless  with  her 
arm  over  her  eyes. 

The  numbness  had  left  her,  and  her  mind  was  clear  and 
active  now,  and  she  had  been  planning  her  future  course. 
The  chief  result  of  that  cogitation  she  muttered  to  herself 
just  as  Lucretia  appeared  to  invite  her  down  to  supper. 

“ Come  what  will — happen  what  may — I will  remain  here 
until  Clifford  Bancroft  comes !” 

It  was  a determination  born  of  the  recklessness  of  des- 
peration, and  she  shut  her  teeth  down  over  the  words  in  a 
manner  indicative  of  a set  purpose. 


M 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

“HE  IS  NOT  HERS,  BUT  MINE!’1 

Daisy  was  not  the  same  girl  who  had  roamed  over  the 
hills  of  Pinelands  so  short  a time  before  with  her  cousin 
Harry. 

Always  willful  and  impetuous ; always  quick  of  temper 
and  sharp  of  tongue,  she  had  still  shown  a readiness  to  for- 
give even  the  most  aggravating  things.  Her  evil  moods 
had  always  been  transient;  her  wrath  like  an  April  storm, 
and  her  light-heartedness  asserted  itself  and  she  was  again 
as  bright  and  cheerful  as  the  song  of  a spring  bird. 

But  now  she  was  changed,  and  the  change  was  terribly 
for  the  worse. 

Since  she  had  been  turned  into  stone,  as  it  were,  by  the 
sight  of  that  unholy  marriage,  she  had  been  mentally 
metamorphosed. 

As  she  tossed  on  her  bed  that  first  night  of  her  stay 
under  Dr.  Burnie’s  roof,  it  seemed  to  her  that  her  brain 
was  on  fire  with  constantly  brooding  over  that  marriage. 

In  the  face  of  his  treachery  toward  her,  what  was  her 
feeling  toward  Clifford  Bancroft? 

Did  she  still  love  him? 

She  did  not  put  the  question  to  herself,  and  she  could  not 
have  answered  it  if  she  had ; and  yet  he  filled  every  nook 
and  cranny,  as  it  were,  in  her  mind. 

She  was  conscious  of  only  one  feeling,  and  that  was  of 
intense  bitterness  toward  him,  and  also  toward  her  rival, 
whom  she  had  that  morning  heard  proclaimed  his  wife, 

“ Oh,  for  vengeance,  vengeance  upon  them  both!” 

That  was  the  only  aspiration  she  uttered  to  herself 
through  all  the  lagging  hours  of  that  night. 

But  how  should  she  accomplish  that  vengeance? 

She  asked  herself  that,  and  she  answered  by  saying  to 
herself  that  she  would  proclaim  him  as  her  own  lawfully 
wedded  husband ! 

She  would  brand  him  before  the  world  as  a bigamist,  and 
she  would  crush  Geraldine  into  the  very  dust  of  shame  by 
revealing  the  terrible  truth  to  her  that  she  was  no  wife— 
that  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  she  was  little  better  than  the 
painted  Magdalens  from  whose  touch  she  gathered  the  very 
hem  of  her  garments  in  disdain. 

A wild  exultation  born  of  her  state  of  semi-madness  came 
over  her,  and  she  exclaimed  to  hersrif,  with  her  eyes  glit- 
tering in  the  light  of  the  breaking  dawn : 

4 • He  is  not  hers,  but  mine ! Mine  as  fast  as  the  law  cap 
bind  him,  and  I will  prove  it  I” 


DAISY  DARRELL,  75 

As  she  said  that  she  caught  her  breath  with  a sudden 
reminder. 

How  could  she  prove  it?  What  testimony  had  she  to 
bring  forward  in  support  of  that  assertion?  What  wit- 
nesses could  she  call  on  to  declare  that  the  secret  marriage 
between  herself  and  Clifford  Bancroft  had  actually  taken 
place? 

A certificate  of  that  marriage  had  never  been  in  her 
possession,  and  she  held  not  one  thread  of  proof  to  sub- 
stantiate her  words. 

She  must  obtain  proof.  She  would  write  to  the  village  of 
Dunbar,  to  the  Reverend  Mr.  Crawford,  for  a certificate  of 
that  marriage  rite  which  he  could  not  possibly  have  for- 
gotten performing. 

She  had  no  writing  materials,  and  she  was  in  a fever  of 
impatience  to  see  Dr.  Burnie  and  to  beg  some  from  him. 

But  in  the  course  of  three  hours  the  letter  was  written, 
and  she  placed  it  in  the  mail  box  with  her  own  hand. 

When  that  letter  left  her  hand,  her  feverish  unrest 
seemed  to  go  with  it.  She  grew  strangely  quiet,  and  Dr. 
Burnie  found  his  companion  a sort  of  automaton — seeming 
to  have  no  will  of  her  own,  but  still  thoroughly  obedient  to 
his. 

She  read  to  him  whatsoever  he  selected;  she  filled  his 
pipe,  and  she  struck  the  match  for  him  to  light  it ; she 
stood  at  the  window  often  for  hours  and  described  the 
scenes  and  the  people  on  the  street  outside,  and  in  a few  days 
she  became  essential  to  his  comfort. 

He  often  spoke  of  his  nephew,  Clifford  Bancroft,  the  son 
of  his  only  surviving  sister,  and  he  never  wearied  in  des- 
canting on  the  brightness  of  his  mind,  and  the  purity  of  his 
character ; and  Daisy  would  listen  with  strained  intentness, 
and  with  shut  teeth. 

Daisy  had  changed  in  mind,  but  a most  remarkable 
physical  change  had  taken  place  in  her  since  John  Gold- 
man had  lifted  her,  like  a broken  lily,  from  the  roadside. 

She  looked  at  least  ten  years  older. 

Her  face  had  lost  its  roundness  and  dimples  since  Clifford 
Bancroft  in  their  little  cottage  had  last  looked  down  into 
those  roguish  blue  eyes. 

They  were  not  roguish  eyes  now,  but  thoughtful  and 
shadowy,  with  dark  rings  under  them. 

Daisy  herself  scarcely  realized  the  change  that  had 
come  over  her;  it  had  been  so  gradual,  and  her  mind  had 
been  so  occupied  with  other  things. 

She  looked  forward  to  the  coming  of  Clifford  Bancroft 
and  his  bride  with  an  intense  interest  that  had  in  it  some- 
thing of  horror. 


76 


daisy  Darrell 


She  counted  off  every  hour  as  it  passed  as  shortening  by 
So  much  the  time  of  their  coming. 

Like  one  under  a baleful  spell  she  watched  the  days  go 
by,  bringing  nearer  and  nearer  the  hour  in  which  she  ex- 
pected to  look  upon  his  face,  and  to  confound  him  with  his 
treachery. 

But  in  that  last  expectation  fortune  seemed  to  be  against 
her,  for  the  Reverend  Mr.  Crawford  had  not  answered  her 
letter,  and  while  she  waited  for  it,  time  seemed  to  glide  by 
with  startling  rapidity. 

The  day  came  on  which  Clifford  Bancroft  and  his  wife 
were  expected  to  arrive,  yet  no  answer  had  come  to  her  let- 
ter to  the  Reverend  Mr.  Crawford. 

The  couple  had  been  accompanied  on  their  tour  by  Judge 
Bancroft  and  his  wife  and  daughter— Clifford’s  haughty 
“Sister  Mag;”  and  they  were  all  expected  to  take  tea  at 
Dr.  Burnie’s  that  evening. 

And  what  a grand  supper  it  was  to  be ! The  best  caterer 
in  the  city  had  been  employed  to  superintend  it,  and 
ordered  to  spare  no  expense  in  making  it  a banquet  fit  for 
the  guests  the  wealthy  old  bachelor,  Dr.  Burnie,  delighted 
to  honor. 

“ You  must  do  the  honors  of  the  house,  Daisy,”  the  old 
man  said  that  afternoon,  with  his  hand  on  the  arm  of  his 
companion.  “ I want  to  show  them  that  if  I have  got  a 
bachelor  establishment  it  will  compare  favorably  with  the 
home  of  the  best  among  the  Benedicts.” 

“I  will  do  my  best,”  she  responded  in  a low,  strained 
tone. 

That  afternoon  she  met,  for  the  first  time,  Professor 
Quinn,  the  scholarly  friend  of  Dr.  Burnie,  who  was  accus- 
tomed to  read  to  him,  from  some  volume  written  in  a for- 
eign tongue,  at  least  one  evening  in  each  week. 

When  Dr.  Burnie  introduced  them  to  each  other,  Daisy 
noticed  that  Professor  Quinn  cast  a keen  glance  at  her 
through  his  spectacles,  and  there  was  something  unac- 
countably unpleasant  in  the  close  and  curious  inspection 
she  underwent  from  those  bright  eyes. 

There  was  in  those  same  eyes  a look  of  startled  recogni- 
tion— a suggestion  of  their  having  met  before. 

He  did  not  mention  it,  however,  if  any  such  idea  occur- 
red to  him. 

He  only  bowed  coldly  and  stiffly,  and  turned  his  atten- 
tion to  the  book  he  had  selected  to  read  that  afternoon. 

Wrapped  in  a tumult  of  feeling,  Daisy  thought  and  cared 
nothing  for  him.  She  bowed  to  him,  and  went  to  her  own 
room. 

As  she  passed  the  open  door  of  the  dining-room  she 
glanced  in. 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


77 


The  table  was  already  spread  for  the  evening  meal ; the 
chandelier  was  gleaming  over  glittering  silver  and  glisten- 
ing china,  and  over  salvers  of  cake  and  baskets  of  tropical 
fruit. 

Daisy  had  no  toilet  to  make.  The  black  dress,  which 
had  been  Mrs.  Goldman’s,  and  which  that  kind-hearted  old 
lady  had  presented  to  her,  was  the  only  one  she  had  there, 
so  there  was  no  choice  with  her  but  to  wear  it. 

Dr.  Burnie  had  voluntarily  paid  her,  three  days  before, 
a month’s  salary,  and  she  baa  invested  it  in  clothing ; but 
neither  of  the  two  dark  woolen  dresses  she  had  bought 
was  made  yet,  so  she  could  only  freshen  her  toilet  with  a 
snowy  collar  and  cuffs. 

In  a strangely  automatic  way  she  made  these  changes. 

Then  she  went  to  her  window2  which  commanded  a view 
of  the  street,  and  stood  gazing  intently  out. 

She  was  watching  for  the  coming  of  Clifford  Bancroft 
and  his  bride. 

But  the  twilight  deepened  into  night  and  the  bridal  party 
came  in  the  darkness,  so  that  Daisy  saw  them  only  as 
shadows  coming  through  the  gate. 

“ Was  she  dying  ?” 

That  idea  drifted  vaguely  through  her  mind,  because 
there  was  such  a queer,  dead  feeling  about  her  heart. 

Five  minutes  afterward  Lucretia  came  to  the  door. 

“ Miss  Daisy,  Dr.  Burnie  says  please  to  come  down  and 
let  him  introduce  you  to  his  company,’’  she  said,  in  her 
broken,  breathless  way. 

Daisy  slowly  arose,  and  went  down,  as  she  had  been 
bidden. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

“SHE  TALKS  AS  IF  SHE  IS  DEMENTED!” 

Daisy’s  face  was  as  colorless  as  marble  as  she  went  slowly 
down  the  broad  stairs,  yet  every  nerve  in  her  was  athrill 
with  excitement. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairway  a mulatto  man,  who  was  Dr, 
Burnie’s  special  attendant,  met  her. 

“The  doctor  is  in  the  library,”  he  said,  and  Daisy,  un- 
derstanding from  the  information  that  the  old  gentleman 
wished  to  see  her  there,  turned  her  steps  in  that  direction, 
and  entered  the  library. 

Dr.  Burnie  was  seated  in  an  easy  chair,  with  his  eyes 
closed  as  usual,  and  with  a disturbed  look  on  his  face,  and 
Professor  Quinn  was  standing  on  the  hearth  a few  feet  from 
him. 

Catching  the  sound  of  his  companion’s  light  footsteps  as 


78 


DAISY  DARRELL, . 


she  entered  the  room,  the  old  gentleman  turned  his  face 
toward  her,  and  said : 

‘‘Come  here,  Daisy,  and  take  a seat  beside  me.  I have 
something  to  say  to  you,  a piece  of  news  to  tell  you  that  I 
hope — I most  sincerely  hope— you  will  prove  is  not  true.” 

Daisy  had  expected  to  see  Clifford  Bancroft  and  Geral- 
dine there,  and  a sort  of  blank  feeling  came  to  her  when 
she  missed  them. 

She  scarcely  comprehended  Dr.  Burnie’s  words,  and  cer- 
tainly they  would  have  made,  in  the  state  of  her  mind,  no 
impression  on  her,  if  the  idea  had  not  instantly  flashed 
through  her  mind  that  the  “ news  ” he  referred  to  was  her 
previous  connection  with  Clifford  Bancroft. 

She  thought  he  had  heard  of  that  secret  marriage,  and 
was  about  to  demand  the  truth  of  her,  and  she  was  pre- 
pared to  tell  it  unflinchingly. 

She  went  forward  and  seated  herself  in  the  chair  he  had 
indicated  for  her  to  take  beside  him. 

“Professor  Quinn  tells  me,  my  child— he  is  an  old  and 
tried  friend  of  mine,  and  very  jealous  where  my  welfare 
and  interest  are  concerned — that  he  saw  you  at  a very  dis- 
reputable place,”  the  old  gentleman  said  kindly,  and  Pro- 
fessor Quinn  looking  down  sharply  at  her  through  his 
spectacles,  took  up  the  theme,  and  said  in  a low,  emphatic 
voice: 

“Yes,  I am  sure  I am  not  mistaken,  for  your  face  made 
such  an  impression  on  me  at  the  time  that  I never  forgot 
it.  About  two  weeks  ago,  I saw  you  in  Dan  Devenant’s 
dance -house.  I was  passing  along  the  street  on  my  way 
to  the  restaurant  where  I usually  take  lunch,  when  I 
glanced  in  through  an  open  window  of  that  abominable 
establishment,  and  I saw  you  lying  on  a sofa,  and  Dan 
Devenant  was  sitting  beside  you,  bending  over  you.  When 
I returned  from  the  restaurant,  after  eating  my  lunch,  I 
saw  you  coming  out  of  the  dance-house.  When  I met  you 
here  this  afternoon  I instantly  recognized  you  as  the  pale- 
faced  young  woman  I had  seen  in  that  disreputable  place, 
and  I felt  it  my  duty  to  warn  my  old  friend  here,  who,  in 
his  peculiar  infirmity,  is  easily  imposed  on.” 

Daisy  heard  and  comprehended  his  charge,  but  in  con- 
sideration of  that  feverish  anticipation  of  soon  meeting 
and  confounding  Clifford  Bancroft,  it  was  as  nothing  to 
her. 

“ Dan  Devenant’s  dance-house!”  She  remembered,  when 
he  mentioned  it,  that  the  bold,  but  seemingly  kind-hearted 
man  who  had  taken  charge  of  her  that  miserable  morning, 
had  spoken  those  same  words  to  her.  Yes — she  had  been 
at  Dan  Devenant’s,  And  so  the  silence  she  maintained 


DAISY  DARRELL . 7* 

after  Professor  Quinn  had  ceased  speaking  seemed  to  de- 
clare. 

“Daisy/1  Dr.  Burnie  said,  speaking  earnestly;  “the 
charge  Professor  Quinn  brings  against  you  is  no  light  thing. 
A respectable  man,  even  with  all  the  superior  privileges 
accorded  to  a man,  would  not  dare  be  seen  at  Dan  Deve- 
nant’s.  It  is  notorious  as  one  of  the  worst  places  in  New 
York.  1 hope  the  professor  is  mistaken,  and  it  was  not 
you  he  saw  there. 11 

For  several  minutes  an  old  lady  arrayed  in  heavy  black 
silk,  and  with  a tiny  cap  of  white  lace  and  lavender  rib- 
bons adorning  her  gray  curls,  had  been  standing  in  the 
doorway  listening  to  the  conversation.  She  came  forward 
and  stood  with  her  hand  on  the  doctor’s  chair. 

“ It  is  highly  important  that  you  should  discover  the  truth 
in  regard  to  the  fact,  brother.  An  unprincipled  woman 
should  not  be  sheltered  for  an  hour  under  your  roof.  And 
in  consideration  of  the  fact  that  Professor  Quinn  usually 
or  I may  say,  always,  knows  what  he  is  talking  about,  I 
advise  that  you  pay  the  young  woman  whatever  salary 
may  be  due  her  and  send  her  away.  It  is  a charge  which, 
of  course,  she  will  deny.” 

She  was  a very  haughty -looking  old  woman,  and  she 
gave  her  head  a haughty  toss  as  she  ended. 

Looking  up  into  that  proud  face,  Daisy  felt  flashes  of  al- 
ternate heat  and  cold  passing  over  her ; and  there  was  a 
choking  sensation  in  her  throat. 

She  noted  the  resemblance  that  face  wore  to  Clifford 
Bancroft’s,  and  she  knew  that  she  was  in  the  presence  of 
his  haughty  mother,  to  whom  he  had  been  afraid  to  pre- 
sent her,  with  her  hoydenish  ways,  as  his  wife,  and  her 
daughter. 

They  were  waiting  for  her  to  speak,  and  she  made  several 
efforts  to  do  so,  but  her  heart  seemed  to  be  fluttering  in 
her  throat,  and  she  kept  a guilty  silence. 

u I think  I see  how  it  is,  brother,”  Mrs.  Bancroft  went  on 
in  that  frigid  way  of  hers.  “And  I reiterate  my  former 
suggestion.  I hardly  think  the  young  woman  is  a fit  com- 

E anion  for  my  son’s  wife,  who  is  now  an  inmate  of  your 
ome.” 

At  that  announcement,  as  if  pent-up  waters  had  been 
suddenly  set  free,  the  hot  blood  ^ith  a leap  and  rush  surged 
through  Daisy’s  veins. 

“Where  is  your  son’s  wife  ?”  she  said  hoarsely,  her  voice 
vibrating. 

The  old  lady  answered  haughtily,  but  yet  with  the  civil- 
ity of  a refined  person : 

“She  is  in  her  room,  ill  with  heart -trouble.”  Here  she 
turned  her  eyes  and  her  remarks  to  Dr.  Burnie— “C1|L 


80 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


ford  is  with  her  uncle,  and  he  bade  me  say  that  he  might 
not  be  able  to  join  you  as  early  as  he  would  like,  perhaps 
not  before  supper.” 

Daisy  was  trembling  with  fiery  wrath  now. 

At  that  moment,  if  she  had  been  given  the  power,  she 
would  have  slain  Geraldine  where  she  lay  panting  and 
moaning  with  her  hand  in  the  clasp  of  the  man  whom  she 
believed  to  be  her  husband. 

Daisy  arose  to  her  feet,  and  drew  a long,  quivering 
breath. 

“ Greater  humiliation  may  come  on  the  woman  who  has 
gone  through  a marriage  ceremony  with  your  son  two 
weeks  ago,  than  the  presence  of  a woman  who  was  once 
taken  in  a state  of  unconsciousness  into  Dan  Devenant’s 
dance-house  can  bring  upon  her.  It  would  be  a blessed 
thing  for  her,  and  a blessed  thing  for  the  man  who  mar 
ried  her,  if  that  woman  was  permitted  to  appear  before 
her  only  as  a person  who  had  been  seen  in  a disreputable 
house!  You  may  take  my  word  for  it,  that  she  will  see 
that  woman  in  another  ana  a more  blighting  character.  ” 

So  saying,  and  trembling  violently,  she  went  from  the 
room,  and  Mrs.  Bancroft  and  the  professor  stared  after 
her,  while  Dr.  Burnie  said  in  a bewildered,  troubled  way: 

“Why,  what  ails  her?  She  talks  as  if  she  is  de- 
mented.” 

“ Possibly  she  is,”  his  sister  said,  frigidly.  “You  know 
nothing  about  how  these  waifs  you  pick  up  from  the  street 
may  develop.” 

“I  am  afraid  that  it  will  be  best  for  me  to  follow  your 
advice,  sister,”  Dr.  Burnie  said,  with  a sigh.  “But  she 
has  been  a great  comfort  to  me,  and  I shall  give  her  up  with 
much  regret.  Her  words  were  incoherent  and  inexplicable 
to  me.  and  seemed  to  indicate  aberration  of  mina  which 
may  have  been  caused  momentarily,  perhaps,  by  finding 
herself  suspected  and  discharged  from  here,  and  she  may 
have  nowhere  to  go,  poor  girl.  I wish  you  would  open 
my  secretary  there,  sister,  and  take  forty  dollars — a 
month’s  wages  for  her— from  the  money -drawer,  and  take 
it  to  her.  I don’t  wish  her  to  leave  to-night,  however.” 

Mrs.  Bancroft  did  as  she  was  bidden,  and  folding  the 
money  in  an  envelope  she  sent  it  up  to  Daisy’s  room  by  the 
hand  of  the  doctor’s  trusty  valet. 

In  the  meantime,  Daisy  was  pacing  up  and  down  the 
floor  of  her  room  like  a caged  lioness. 

She  was  chafing  under  a bitter  conviction  that  had  come 
to  her. 

If  Clifford  Bancroft  denied  that  secret  marriage,  as  of 
course  he  would  if  she  should  charge  it  on  him,  what  proof 
epuld  she  bring  to  substantiate  her  words? 


DAISY  DARRELL . 


81 


Although  the  haunting  memory  of  the  wrong  which  had 
been  done  her  seemed  like  a lash  goading  her  into  mad 
ness,  she  saw  that  her  vengeance  for  that  wrong  must  yet 
be  delayed. 

She  would  walk  to  Dunbar  if  need  be,  and  get  the  testi- 
mony of  the  Reverend  Mr.  Crawford. 

The  mulatto  man  knocked  on  her  door,  and  handed  in 
the  envelope  containing  the  money. 

There  would  be  no  necessity  for  her  to  walk  to  Dunbar. 
There  was  now  no  necessity  for  such  delay,  and  she  was 
burning  to  proclaim  herself,  and  to  claim  her  rights  as  the 
onlylawful  wife  of  Clifford  Bancroft. 

Hurriedly  she  packed  4her  slender  wardrobe  into  a 
bundle,  and  went  down-stairs. 

The  lights  shone  over  the  great  city  like  myriads  of 
stars. 

The  full  moon  hung  like  a silver  plate  over  the  old  house 
she  was  leaving. 

She  passed  along  the  winding  carriage  road  under  the 
ancient  trees. 

At  a sudden  bend  in  the  road  she  started  back,  and  her 
breath  seemed  to  have  been  snatched  from  her. 

There,  face  to  face  in  the  wan  moonlight,  she  met  her 
treacherous  husband,  Clifford  Bancroft! 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

“IT  WOULD  BE  WELL  IF  I WERE  A GHOST!” 

Clifford  Bancroft  was  as  much  shocked  by  the  sud- 
den sight  of  Daisy  there  in  the  moonlight  as  she  was  by 
his  unexpected  appearance. 

He,  too,  started  back,  and  a quick,  sharp  exclamation 
broke  from  him. 

“My  God ! Who— what  are  you?” 

Daisy  staggered  back  against  a tree,  and  stood  staring 
at  him  with  her  face  showing  white  and  rigid  as  the  feat- 
ures of  the  dead. 

Clifford  Bancroft  made  an  effort  to  recover  himself. 

He  bent  forward  and  peered  into  [her  face  in  the  wan 
light. 

That  face  he  saw  looked  years  older  than  the  rosy,  dim- 
pled one  it  so  closely  resembled  in  its  general  outlines. 

Just  as  this  woman  looked  with  her  set  and  colorless 
features,  he  fancied  at  the  moment  that  Daisy  might 
have  looked  when  she  ceased  to  struggle  for  life  under  the 
cruel  water,  and  yielded  the  victory  to  Death. 

He  shivered  as  that  swift  conviction  came  to!  him,  but 
after  that  moment’s  close  scrutiny,  he  lifted  himself  and 
said  in  an  unsteady,  unnatural  voice: 


83 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


“ I beg  your  pardon,  but  you  so  closely  resembled  a— a 
—some  one  I knew  once,  that  I was  startled  as  if  I had  seen 
a ghost.” 

In  the  ghastliness  of  her  face,  it  was  as  horrible  to  see 
her  teeth  clash  together  as  if  she  had  indeed  been  a 
wraith. 

Through  those  set  teeth  she  said  in  a tone  hoarse  with 
intensity : 

“ It  would  be  well  if  I were  a ghost,  Clifford  Bancroft  I 
It  would  be  be  better  for  you  to  kill  me  now,  and  so  make 
a ghost  of  me,  than  to  let  me  live  on  for  the  revenge  I am 
sure  to  takel” 

She  lifted  her  clinched  hand  in  the  moonlight  as  if  she 
were  registering  an  oath,  and  her  eyes  blazed  like  those  of 
a maniac. 

Clifford  Bancroft  did  not  suspect  her  identity.  He  be- 
lieved that  Daisy  was  dead,  and  that  he  had  himself  seen 
the  clods  thrown  and  packed  over  her  coffin.  An  instant’s 
consideration  had  convinced  him  that  her  resemblance  to 
his  hoidenish,  bright  eyed  child- wife  was  nothing  more 
than  a chance  likeness. 

Her  wild  words  and  wilder  manner  convinced  him  that 
she  was  a maniac. 

What  should  he  do  with  her?  Should  he  give  her  in 
charge  of  a policeman,  so  that  a watch  might  be  kept  over 
her  to  prevent  her  doing  damage  to  herself  or  any  one 
else? 

He  turned  his  head  and  looked  eagerly  up  and  down  the 
street  beyond  the  iron  fence  of  the  yard. 

She  saw  that  he  really  had  failed  to  identify  her;  and 
the  expression  of  his  face,  as  he  looked  so  eagerly  up  and 
down  the  street,  led  her  to  suspect  the  truth— that  he  con- 
sidered her  a suspicious  character,  or  an  insane  person, 
who  should  not  be  allowed  to  go  scot  free  at  that  dark 
hour. 

The  quick,  sharp  rustle  of  her  garments  caused  him  to 
look  around  again  to  the  spot  where  she  had  been  stand- 
ing, but  she  was  no  longer  there,  and  he  saw  her  flitting 
away  through  the  trees  with  the  swiftness  of  a lapwing. 

“Poor  thing,”  he  muttered.  “Let  her  go  where  she 
will.  Fortune  will  take  care  of  her,  I hope.  Daisy  would 
have  looked  like  her  if  she  had  been  ten  years  older,  and 
insane.  Dear  little  Daisy ! Dead,  and  so  young !” 

He  drew  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  and  he  walked  away 
in  the  gloomy  shadows  of  the  trees — a bridegroom,  but 
yet  the  most  miserable  man  in  the  great  city  of  New 
York. 

He  glanced  up  and  saw  the  light  glowing  from  the  wim 
dow  of  the  room  where  Geraldine  lay. 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


*^She  is  a beautiful,  grand-looking  woman,”  he  muttered, 
“and  in  time  I will  learn  to  love  her,  when  I have  forgot- 
ten to  be  remorseful  about  Daisy.” 

While  Clifford  Bancroft  was  muttering  that  to  himself, 
Daisy  was  making  her  way  over  the  lamp-lighted  streets, 
to  a railroad  depot,  guided  at  every  turn  by  the  direction 
of  some  accommodating  policeman  of  whom  she  made  in- 
quiry. 

Two  days  afterward,  and  in  the  gray  of  the  October 
twilight,  she  entered  the  village  of  Dunbar. 

There  was  the  spire  of  the  little  church  pointing  upward 
in  the  misty  light  as  it  had  done  that  hour  when,  as  a 
bride,  she  had  dreamily  noticed  it.  She  recognized  it,  and 
she  knew  that  the  parsonage  of  Reverend  Mr.  Crawford 
was  immediately  opposite  the  entrance  of  the  church. 

So  she  made  her  way  in  that  direction,  and  soon  she  was 
knocking  on  the  door  of  the  little  cottage. 

How  well  she  remembered  that  vine-covered  house,  al- 
though she  had  looked  on  it  in  such  a bewildering,  but 
sweet,  flutter  of  excitement ! 

So  vividly  every  feature  of  that  former  scene  came  to 
her  that  it  seemed  impossible  for  anything  pertaining  to 
that  quiet  home  to  change,  and  she  was  surprised  when  a 
man  who  was  not  Mr.  Crawford,  but  who  yet  wore  a de- 
cidedly clerical  appearance,  opened  the  door  to  her. 

“ I want  to  see  Mr.  Crawford,”  Daisy  said  eagerly. 

“ Mr.  Crawford  is  not  here,”  the  gentleman  answered  in 
a slow,  deliberate  way.  He  has  gone  as  a missionary  to 
the  East  Indies.  He  sailed  five  weeks  ago  yesterday.” 

Gone  to  the  East  Indies ! 

A sickening  sense  of  disappointment  swept  over  poor 
Daisy ; it  seemed  that  fate  was  conspiring  against  her. 

“Give  me  his  address,  please,”  she  said,  with  her  lip 
beginning  to  quiver. 

“ I am  very  sorry  that  I cannot  do  so,”  Mr.  Crawford’s 
successor  said  kindly.  “I  am  not  at  all  acquainted  with 
him,  but  I understand  that  he  never  corresponds  with  any 
one.  He  is  a very  zealous  worker  in  the  Master’s  cause, 
and  travels  from  place  to  place,  and  from  country  to 
country  sometimes,  as  a self-appointed  missionary,  doing 
all  the  good  he  can.” 

“Thank  you,”  Daisy  said,  and  she  turned  away,  feeling 
bitterly  resentful  toward  the  Providence  which  had  so 
baffled  her. 

The  reverend  gentleman  called  after  her: 

“ Won’t  you  come  into  the  house?  My  wife  will  be  glad 
to  entertain  you.” 

Daisy  glanced  back,  and  shook  her  head,  and  went  away. 

The  twilight  was  deepening  into  night,  and  through  the 


84 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


gloom  she  saw  the  red  and  green  lights  of  a steamboat  a)> 
proaching  the  landing  of  the  village. 

An  impulse  seized  her  to  take  passage  on  that  boat,  and 
to  go  wherever  it  should  take  her;  so  she  accordingly  made 
her  way  to  the  landing  and  entered  the  steamer. 

It  proved  to  be  a packet  bound  for  Cincinnati,  and  she 
paid  for  her  passage  to  that  place. 

It  was  a beautiful  evening,  and  the  October  breeze  float- 
ing up  the  river  was  delightfully  invigorating,  and  Daisy 
passed  most  of  her  time  on  the  guards  of  the  boat. 

There  were  very  few  passengers  on  board,  and  in  the 
troubled  state  of  her  mind  Daisy  took  no  notice  of  them, 
and  they  paid  no  attention  to  her. 

They  were  nearing  Cincinnati,  and  plainly  visible  on  the 
sky  was  the  cloud  of  soot  and  smoke  that  always  blots  the 
blue  above  a great  city. 

Leaning  on  the  railing  of  the  guards,  Daisy  stood  staring 
moodily  at  the  black,  sulphurous  columns  going  upward, 
when  she  was  startled  by  the  sound  of  a fall,  simultaneously 
with  which  came  a sharp  cry  of  pain. 

She  turned  to  see  an  old  woman  lying  prostrate  on  the 
floor  a few  feet  away  from  her  with  her  leg  twisted 
dangerously. 

She  had  slipped  on  a banana  peal  which  some  one  had 
carelessly  thrown  there. 

Daisy  ran  to  her  and  knelt  beside  her,  and  endeavored  to 
raise  her,  but  the  old  woman  shrieked  with  the  additional 
pain  caused  by  the  movement. 

4 ‘Oh!  Oh!  I shall  die!  My  leg  is  broken!  Do  some- 
thing for  me !”  she  cried. 

Several  others  came  up  by  this  time,  and  the  unfortunate 
woman  was  borne  to  her  state-room,  and  Daisy,  moved  by 
an  impulse  of  kindness,  which  happily  weakened  the 
memory  of  her  own  suffering  and  wrongs,  accompanied 
her,  ana  set  herself  to  work  to  relieve  as  far  as  possible  the 
agony  occasioned  by  the  injured  limb. 

It  was  not  broken,  as  the  old  lady  had  declared,  but  the 
ankle  was  badly  sprained,  and  was  dreadfully  swollen  and 
feverish. 

Daisy  was  naturally  a good  nurse,  and  she  had  gentle 
and  magnetic  hands,  and  under  her  soothing  touches  and 
judicious  ministrations  the  sufferer  experienced  a grateful 
sense  of  relief. 

They  were  entering  port,  when  the  old  lady  asked,  with 
her  restless  black  eyes  fixed  on  Daisy’s  face : 

“ Do  you  live  in  Cincinnati?” 

“ No,”  she  answered,  speaking  in  ahard,  defiant  way ; “ I 
have  no  home,  I am  going  to  Cincinnati  in  search  of  em- 
ployment.” 


DAISY  DARRELL.  85 

A pondering  look  came  into  the  shrewd  black  eyes  up- 
lifted to  hers. 

Just  then  a knock  came  on  the  door  and  the  chamber- 
maid looked  in. 

“ We’ve  landed,”  she  said  laconically. 

Daisy  arose  from  the  bedside  on  which  she  had  been 
sitting,  and  held  her  hand  out  to  her  charge. 

“I  must  bid  you  good-bye,”  she  said. 

The  old  woman  grasped  her  hand  and  clung  to  it,  while 
she  looked  up  into  the  fair  face  bending  over  her,  with  a 
hesitating  but  wistful  look  in  her  shrewd  eyes. 

“I  am  very  poor,  very,”  she  said  emphatically,  “but  I 
live  alone,  and  I will  be  compelled  to  have  some  one  stay 
with  me  until  I am  able  to  get  about  myself ; and  as  you 
haven’t  anywhere  to  stay  in  Cincinnati,  you  might  come 
along  with  me.  I can  give  you  a bed  free,  and  you  can 
help  along  toward  getting  provisions  yourself,  maybe.” 

She  put  the  interrogatory  in  a tone  of  great  anxiety,  and 
Daisy  answered : 

“I  had  as  well  be  with  you,  and  better,  perhaps,  than 
with  anybody  else,  until  I get  some  kind  of  employment. 
So  I will  go  with  you.” 

Thus  it  was  settled,  and  Daisy  went  to  the  poor  little 
shanty  which  was  the  home  of  her  new  acquaintance,  and 
which  was  certainly  comfortless  enough  to  justify  the  old 
woman’s  assertion  that  she  “was  very  poor.” 

It  was  an  old,  crumbling  brick  cottage  containing  three 
rooms,  which  were  in  a most  forlorn  condition  from  the 
inroads  of  time  and  decay.  There  was  scarcely  a comfort 
to  be  found  in  one  of  them.  A rickety  bedstead,  badly 
furnished  with  bedding,  a few  broken  chairs,  an  unsteady 
table,  a cracked  cooking-stove,  and  an  old-fashioned  cor- 
ner cupboard,  comprised  the  appointments  of  the  place, 
and  were  in  keeping  with  the  old  house. 

In  her  loneliness  and  desolation,  Daisy’s  heart  went  out 
in  a sort  of  fierce  sympathy — if  such  an  expression  may  be 
allowed  or  understood — to  this  old  woman,  whom,  in  her 
poverty  and  helplessness,  chance  or  fate,  whichever  ruled 
the  hour,  had  thrown  in  her  way. 

She  slept  on  the  bare  floor  that  night,  and  early  the  next 
morning  while  Miss  Priscilla  Haines,  the  name  of  her  pro- 
tegee, was  still  sleeping — she  went  out  into  the  city,  and 
with  an  unsparing  hand  she  purchased  from  her  own 
slender  resources  some  necessary  articles  of  food  and  pro- 
visions, which  the  old  lady  seemed  keenly  to  appreciate, 
but  she  seemed  greatly  disturbed  at  the  money  they  had 
cost,  and  spoke  much  of  it. 

“You  don’t  know,  maybe,  what  it  is,”  she  said,  “to  be 
without  money.  Money  is  a great  friend,  my  dear,  and 


86 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


hold  on  to  it  as  strongly  as  you  can.  I never  had  any  ta 
hold  on  to,”  she  said,  with  great  emphasis,  as  if  movea  by 
a strange  desire  to  impress  that  fact  on  Daisy’s  mind.  “I 
am  very  poor — very  poor  indeed.” 

She  harped  so  much  on  this  one  subject,  that  Daisy  came 
to  think  that  the  old  woman’s  mind  was  weakening  with 
her  body,  and  so  was  unusually  patient  and  gentle  with 
her. 

Miss  Priscilla  had  never  left  her  bed  to  sit  up  for  any 
length  of  time  since  Daisy  had  been  with  her.  She  was 
very  old,  and,  perhaps,  she  was  unable  to  rally  from  the 
shock  of  that  painful  fall.  Certain  it  was  that  she  was 
gradually  passing  away,  and  Daisy  saw  it,  and  resolved  to 
remain  until  the  last  with  the  poor  creature  who  had  not 
a known  relative  on  earth.  So  she  stayed  with  her,  and 
worked  hard  and  patiently  for  her. 

She  had  still  some  of  the  money  which  Dr.  Burnie  had 
paid  her,  and  she  had  been  fortunate  enough  to  secure 
sewing  from  a house  furnishing  ready-made  wardrobes. 
So  the  old  woman’s  last  days  were  passed  in  more  comfort 
than  she  had  known  for  many  and  many  a year. 

Miss  Priscilla  Haines  had  been  the  only  child  of  a mill- 
ionaire, so  tradition  stated ; and  how  she  had  run  through 
with  the  immense  fortune  he  had  bequeathed  her  at  his 
death  no  one  could  tell.  The  fact  only  was  patent  to  the 
public  that  from  her  palatial  home  on  Walnut  Hills  she  had 
come  to  live  and  die,  after  a gradual  descent,  in  that 
tumble-down  cottage  in  the  alley. 

For  over  fourteen  months  Daisy  had  been  with  her,  min- 
istering unmurmuringly  to  her  wants,  when  her  release 
came,  and  Miss  Priscilla’s  also,  for  she  died,  and  Daisy’s 
last  cent  went  to  defray  the  expenses  of  her  burial. 

Never  in  her  short  but  eventful  life  had  the  poor  girl  felt 
lonelier  than  when  she  turned  away  from  the  humble 
grave  which  hid  the  only  person  to  whose  happiness  she 
had  come  to  be  essential,  and  went  back  to  the  little  cot- 
tage. 

How  desolate  it  was  with  the  gray  of  the  twilight  falling 
over  it,  and  its  shadows  gathering  in  it ! 

With  a choking  sob,  Daisy  threw  herself  on  the  bed  and 
clasped  in  her  arms  the  pillow  on  which  the  head  of  her 
old  friend  had  lain. 

Her  hand  touched  a folded  paper  that  was  under  the 
sheet,  and  she  arose  and  lighted  the  lamp  and  examined  it. 

She  saw  a few  lines  addressed  to  herself,  written  in  the 
tremulous  but  clear  characters  of  Miss  Priscilla  Haines. 

She  read,  with  staring  eyes: 

“ My  dear  Daisy,— In  consideration  of  your  kindness  tQ 


DAISY  DARRELL.  8? 

me,  I bequeath  what  you  may  find  under  the  flat  rock  in 
the  left  chimney  corner.  Priscilla  Haines.” 


CHAPTER  XXn. 

UI  AM  NO  LONGER  HELPLESS,  BUT  POWERFUL!” 

When  the  first  surprise  occasioned  by  that  singular 
communication  had  worn  off,  Daisy  thought  that  she  un- 
derstood how  it  had  been  written. 

“It  is  only  one  of  the  poor  old  woman’s  vagaries,”  she 
said,  huskily,  “but  I will  keep  it  in  memory  of  her,  as  it 
is  the  only  scrap  of  her  writing  I have  ever  seen,  and  it 
shows  that  she  knew  I wanted  to  make  her  comfortable.” 

With  a reverential  touch  she  refolded  the  paper  and 
placed  it  in  her  bosom,  and  then  she  blew  out  the  light, 
and  lay  down  again  on  the  bed  with  the  darkness  growing 
deeper  over  her,  and  seeming  to  symbol  the  future  that 
stretched  in  its  unreadable  mystery  before  her. 

The  recent  presence  of  Death,  which  has  always  a pow- 
erful influence  for  good  or  for  evil  on  every  sensitive  na- 
ture, had  touched  and  softened  her  in  every  respect  save 
in  that  intense  bitterness  toward  Clifford  Bancroft  for  the 
foul  wrong  he  had  done,  and  which  she  had  never  for  a 
moment  forgotten. 

He  had  trifled  with  her  love ; he  had  violated  her  trust ; 
he  had  blighted  her  life ; he  had  heartlessly  cast  all  mem- 
ory of  her  from  him,  and  had  married  another  woman. 
He  had  given  to  another  woman  the  honored  place  at  his 
side  which  was  by  right  hers  and  hers  only ! 

For  this,  she  would  bring  destruction  down  upon  him, 
and  upon  the  woman  he  had  so  honored ! 

She  told  herself  that  as  she  lay  there  on  the  bed  with 
that  keen  sense  of  desolation  over  her. 

But  in  her  state  of  miserable  poverty  and  friendlessness 
how  far  he  seemed  to  be  removed  from  her  in  his  wealth 
and  pride ! 

Money  would  compass  anything.  Oh,  if  she  only  had 
money ! 

It  was  the  cant  of  Miss  Priscilla,  and  it  reminded  her  of 
her. 

“ Her  mind  ran  so  much  on  her  poverty  that  I suppose 
she  fancied  that  she  had  a large  fortune  somewhere,  and  it 
was  in  that  freak  that  she  wrote  to  me  about  finding  some- 
thing under  the  flat  rock  in  the  corner  of  the  chimney,” 
Daisy  muttered  sadly. 

She  dismissed  the  subject  from  her  thoughts — or  rather 
it  was  superseded  by  that  unvarying  idea  of  the  wrong 
that  more  than  a year  ago  had  been  done  her,  and  of  the 
retribution  which  she  meant,  if  possible,  should  follow  it. 


DAISY  DARRELL 


But  when  she  fell  into  a broken  sleep  after  awhile,  she 
dreamed  of  that  tremulously  written  communication,  and 
that  the  object  hidden  under  the  rock  was  the  certificate  of 
her  marriage  with  Clifford  Bancroft. 

She  awoke  with  a start.  Day  was  breaking,  and  its  first 
dim  light  was  in  the  room,  lending  to  each  object  a ghostly 
and  gloom-inspiring  appearance. 

Oh,  what  a miserable  thing  it  was  to  awaken  to  a sense  of 
existence ! Daisy  thought— to  feel  the  burden  of  life  upon 
you  so  heavy— so  heavy ! 

In  her  dream  she  had  seen  the  proof  of  her  marriage  so 
distinctly  lying  under  the  flat  rock  that  the  awakening  to 
the  mockery  of  the  vision  seemed  the  very  perfection  of 
cruelty. 

The  feverish  tide  was  beginning  to  flow  again  through  the 
veins  and  arteries  of  the  great  city,  and  the  sound  thereof 
crept  to  Daisy’s  ears  through  the  sluggish  alley. 

It  meant  business — it  meant  bread,  and  she  had  neither. 

For  a day  or  two  before  Miss  Priscilla’s|death  she  had  been 
idle ; no  work  had  been  given  out  by  the  house  for  which 
she  was  employed  to  sew,  and  the  burial  expenses  of  her 
friend  had  drained  her  little  purse  of  its  last  cent.  She 
must  go  out  this  morning  and  find  work,  she  told  herself, 
or  she  would  starve. 

She  arose  and  bathed  her  haggard  face,  and  then  she 
went  to  the  little  corner  cupboard  and  ate  for  her  break- 
fast the  few  scraps  of  bread  it  contained. 

It  was  very  early  yet.  As  she  drew  aside  the  muslin  cur- 
tain she  had  looped  over  the  sunken  window,  she  saw  that 
the  gray  of  the  dawn  was  not  veined  by  a gleam  of  the  ris- 
ing sun.  The  house  for  which  she  sewed  was  not  open 
yet,  and  would  not  be  for  at  least  a half  hour;  so  she  must 
wait. 

She  was  restless,  and  she  employed  herself  by  making 
the  room  tidy.  That  was  a small  job,  and  it  was  soon  ac- 
complished, and  as  she  paused  at  the  window,  folding  her 
hands  on  her  breast,  a sudden  idea  occurred  to  her. 

She  would  go  out  and  raise  that  rock  and  see  what  there 
really  was  under  it. 

It  was  a very  old  house,  and  the  chimney  was  built 
against  the  outside  wall  after  the  old-fashioned  mode  of 
architecture,  so  there  were  deep  corners  on  either  side  of  it. 

Daisy  had  never  noticed  the  rock,  but  she  found  it,  as 
the  note  stated,  in  the  left-hand  corner.  Only  its  surface 
was  visible,  for  it  was  imbedded  deep  in  the  soil.  It  was 
flat,  and  would  have  measured  about  two  feet  either  way 
across  the  top. 

It  was  no  small  job  to  move  it;  evidently  it  had  not  been 
disturbed  for  years;  but  Daisy  grew  interested  in  the 


DAISY  DARRELL.  89 

effort ; the  resistance  it  offered  stimulated  her  to  renewed 
exertion. 

She  went  back  into  the  house,  and  brought  an  old  iron 
shovel  to  her  assistance. 

With  that  implement  she  dug  the  soil  from  around  it, 
and  she  saw  that  the  rock  was  only  about  five  inches  in 
thickness,  and  that  with  the  stout  shovel  she  could  easily 
pry  it  up. 

She  accordingly  brought  all  her  strength  to  bear  upon  it, 
and  in  less  than  a minute  it  was  lying  with  its  moldy 
under  side  upward  beside  the  moldy  oed  in  which  it  had 
been. 

Daisy,  panting  and  perspiring,  looked  curiously  down  on 
that  bed,  and  saw  only  a few  earth-worms  burrowing 
from  sight,  and  caught  the  musty  smell  of  the  mildewed 
ground. 

She  was  not  disappointed ; she  had  really  expected  noth- 
ing else,  and  the  experiment  had  been  made  only  to  kill 
time. 

With  no  object  whatever  in  view,  she  lifted  the  shovel 
and  struck  it  heavily  into  the  wet  ground  her  labor  had 
exposed. 

It  went  down  for  about  two  inches,  and  then  it  struck 
against  something  on  which  it  rested. 

44  It  is  another  rock,”  Daisy  muttered  to  herself. 

But  she  set  to  work,  ana  diligently  scooped  the  soil 
from  it. 

Was  it  indeed  another  rock? 

She  knelt  down  and  with  her  hand  she  brushed  away 
the  clinging  earth. 

No,  it  was  not  stone,  it  was  some  dark  metal,  and  her 
heart  began  to  palpitate  with  excitement. 

What  was  it?  She  could  not  unearth  it  with  her  fingers. 

She  brought  the  shovel  to  her  assistance  again,  and  in 
five  minutes’  time  the  object  was  exposed. 

It  was  a leaden  box  about  one  foot  and  a half  square, 
and  it  was  so  heavy  that  she  could  not  move  it  from  its 
place. 

She  was  entirely  secluded  from  sight ; a blank  wall  shut’ 
in  the  small  yard  on  either  side,  so  only  the  rising  sun 
looked  upon  her  as  she  knelt  there  tugging  at  the  buried 
box. 

She  could  pry  it  out  with  the  iron  shovel,  as  she  had 
done  the  stone  that  covered  it ; in  the  frenzy  of  excitement 
which  had  come  over  her  when  she  found  that  there  really 
was  something  hidden  “under  the  flat  rock  in  the  left 
chimney  corner,”  she  had  forgotten  that  mode  of  working. 

She  recollected  it  now,  and  she  brought  the  lever  to  bea* 


90 


DAISY  DAHRELU 


upon  the  box  and  in  a minute  it  was  lying  wet  and  moldy 
on  the  upper  ground. 

She  could  not  lift  it ; she  found  that  it  was  the  weight  of 
the  box,  rather  than  its  having  been  wedged  in  the  hole, 
which  prevented  her  moving  it  with  her  natural  power 
before.  It  was  in  its  heaviness  like  a great  lump  of  solid 
lead. 

But  she  could  convey  it  into  the  house  by  rolling  it  over 
and  over,  and  that  she  did. 

The  house  for  which  she  had  been  employed,  and  which 
she  had  resolved  to  visit  that  morning  in  order  to  procure 
more  work,  had  been  open  for  an  hour,  but  in  her  excite- 
ment at  finding  the  box  she  had  forgotten  her  proposed 
errand. 

“ How  should  she  open  it?”  she  asked  herself,  kneeling 
beside  it,  and  picking  at  it  with  her  fingers,  which  were 
all  too  weak  to  break  that  rusty  lock. 

The  trouble  she  had  passed  through  had  not  killed  her 
natural  characteristics — one  of  the  chief  of  which  was 
a desire  to  inquire  into  whatever  mystified  her. 

So,  for  the  time,  utterly  forgetful  of  everything  else,  she 
was  wild  with  curiosity  to  see  the  contents  of  that  strong- 
box. 

She  looked  around  the  room  for  some  implement  to  assist 
her,  and  her  eyes  lighted  on  a flint  rock  which  Miss  Pris- 
cilla had  used  in  years  gone  by  to  light  her  fires,  by  strik- 
ing sparks  from  it  with  a bit  of  steel. 

Daisy  seized  on  it,  and  began  to  pound  the  rusty  lock. 

At  the  third  stroke,  the  bolt  was  broken,  and  the  lid  flew 
back. 

What  she  saw  then  actually  took  away  her  breath  to  look 
upon. 

There,  glittering  in  the  morning  light  that  fell  upon 
them  were  coins  of  gold,  filling  the  box  to  the  very  top ! 

There  were  dollars  that  amounted  to  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands in  number,  and  yet  Priscilla  Haines,  while  the  right- 
ful and  conscious  possessor  of  them  all,  had  lived  and  died 
in  poverty  the  most  abject! 

The  girl  who  had  inherited  them  was  so  dazed  by  her 
great  good  luck,  that  for  fully  five  minutes  she  could  only 
sit  there  on  the  bare  floor  and  stare  at  her  treasure  trove 
with  wide  eyes  and  dropped  jaw. 

The  realization  came  suddenly  to  her,  and  she  sprung  to 
her  feet,  tossing  her  arms  upward  with  wild  exultation, 
exclaiming  in  a voice  hoarse  and  tremulous: 

“lam  no  longer  helpless,  but  powerful — powerful— as 
Clifford  Bancroft  will  find  out!” 


DAISY  DARRELL • 


*1 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

u i advise  you  to  keep  an  eye  on  your  husband  when 

HE  COMES!’’ 

Christmas  had  come,  setting  the  children  wild  with  the 
advent  of  Santa  Claus,  more  abundantly  and  richly  en- 
dowed than  usual,  in  the  city  of  New  York. 

But  the  older  people,  at  least  as  many  of  them  as  com- 
prised the  creme  de  la  creme  of  society,  were  wild  over  the 
advent  of  some  one  else. 

That  person  was  called  the  “ Beautiful  Mystery,”  because 
so  little  was  known  about  her. 

She  had  appeared  in  the  city  a few  weeks  before,  and  by 
the  rare  perfection  of  her  face  and  figure,  as  well  as  by  the 
boundless  wealth  in  which  she  seemed  to  float,  she  almost 
immediately  became,  in  vulgar  parlance,  “the  rage,”  and 
was  sought  out  and  courted  by  the  very  haughtiest  people 
in  the  city. 

She  was  known  as  Madame  Astrsea,  and  none  questioned 
the  genuineness  of  the  classic  cognomen. 

The  “ Goddess  of  Justice,”  her  name  implied,  and  her 
face  declared  her  the  goddess  of  beauty. 

No  one  would  have  recognized  in  this  Madame  Astraea, 
robed  in  velvet  and  glittering  in  diamonds,  Daisy  Darrell, 
the  hoyden  who  with  her  cousin  Harry  had  tramped  over 
the  hills  and  vales  and  climbed  the  trees  at  Pinelands  less 
than  two  years  before. 

Yet  Madame  Astraea  and  Daisy  Darrell  were  one  and 
the  same  person;  or  rather,  Madame  Astraea  had  been 
Daisy  Darrell,  for  the  metamorphosis  which  had  changed 
the  trusting  girl  into  the  revengeful  woman  had  left  not  a 
vestige  of  her  old  nature  seemingly,  and  had  changed  the 
mobile  features  into  a semblance  of  beautifully  chiseled 
marble. 

She  had  changed  her  flaxen  hair  into  snow-white,  and 
instead  of  the  short  curls  she  had  worn  as  Daisy  Darrell, 
a glistening  coil  rested  like  a coronet  on  her  shapely 
head. 

Instead  of  the  fresh,  dimpled  girl  of  sixteen  who  had 
rashly  eloped  with  Clifford  Bancroft  from  Pinelands,  she 
looked  like  a woman  of  at  least  twenty -six. 

She  had  some  five  weeks  before  appeared  in  New  York 
“from  the  Old  World,”  somebody  surmised,  and  “so- 
ciety ” took  up  the  assertion,  and  declared  that  she  had 
come  from  the  Old  World,  and  that  she  was  the  widow  of 
a young  English  soldier  who  had  died  of  a fever  in  the  East; 
Indies. 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


This  story  had  its  origin,  as  all  such  stories  have,  in  a 
supposition  that  gradually  grew  into  a positive  assertion, 
and  no  one  thought  to  question  its  truth. 

Her  home  was  spoken  of  as  a palace,  and  it  was  cer- 
tainly one  of  the  grandest  in  New  York. 

The  house  was  a marvel  of  architecture,  which  had  been 
offered  for  sale  on  the  demise  of  its  former  owner,  and 
Madame  Astreea  had  purchased  it  through  an  attorney, 
and  had  proceeded  to  furnish  it  in  a style  of  magnificence 
wonderful  even  for  that  city  of  wealth  and  vanity. 

As  we  have  said,  Madame  Astrsea  was  “the  rage,”  and 
she  had  calls  and  invitations  from  the  bon  ton  without 
number. 

But  none  of  those  attentions  had  come  from  Clifford  Ban- 
croft, or  his  wife,  for  they  were  somewhere  in  the  south  of 
France,  whither  they  had  gone  for  the  benefit  of  Geraldine’s 
health. 

The  newspapers,  in  their  “society  notes,”  had  announced 
that  they  were  on  their  way  home,  and  it  was  expected 
by  their  friends  that  they  would  reach  New  York  in  time 
to  attend  the  grand  New-Year  ball  which  would  be  the 
event  of  the  winter. 

It  was,  indeed,  a grand  affair— that  ball.  All  the  elite 
of  the  great  city  were  there  decked  in  their  grandest  attire. 

The  vast  parlors  of  a merchant  prince  were  ablaze  with 
light  that  fell  like  a mist  of  gold  from  glittering  chandeliers 
On  the  brilliant  assemblage,  and  music,  bewildering  in  its 
ebb  and  flow,  kept  time  to  their  dancing  feet. 

It  was  really  Madame  Astreea’s  first  appearance  at  a ball, 
and  her  arrival  was  eagerly  watched  for,  because  she  was 
as  yet  a novelty— a sensation  of  which  they  had  not  tired. 

“ Her  toilets  are  superb,”  a gushing  belle  remarked  en- 
thusiastically to  Geraldine,  who  had  really  arrived  in  time 
for  the  ball,  and  who,  in  company  with  her  husband,  had 
appeared  there  an  hour  before.  “And  then  she  is  so  per- 
fectly beautiful ! The  gentlemen  all  rave  about  her,  and 
fall  in  love  with  her — both  married  and  single.  I advise 
you  to  keep  an  eye  on  your  husband  when  she  comes.” 

The  young  girl  spoke  laughingly,  but  no  responsive  smile 
came  to  Geraldine’s  proud  lips. 

She  turned  her  regal  head,  with  its  coils  of  jet  black  hair, 
toward  a crowd  in  the  center  of  which  Clifford  was  stand- 
ing and  was  clearly  visible  because  of  his  superior  height. 

They  were  friends  of  S?his  who  had  gathered  around  him 
in  order  to  welcome  him  back  to  his  home,  and  who  tarried 
only  a few  minutes  and  then  passed  on  to  others. 

While  Geraldine’s  eye  was  on  him,  she  saw  him  separate 
from  these  friends,  and  move  carelessly  away  to  a deep 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


93 

window  where,  half  hidden  by  the  lace  curtains,  he  stood 
and  glanced  listlessly  over  the  crowd. 

As  she  looked  at  him,  a shadow  fell  over  Geraldine’s  face 
that  marred  its  beauty — a shadow  that  had  often  been 
there  during  the  sixteen  months  of  her  wedded  life. 

Her  husband  was  by  far  the  handsomest  man  in  the 
room,  and  she  was  proud  of  him,  but  he  was  always  cold 
and  gloomy. 

Nothing  seemed  to  charm,  nor  even  to  interest  him,  and 
loving  him  with  all  the  strength  of  her  nature  as  she  did, 
it  made  her  unhappy. 

She  had  become  vaguely  suspicious.  Something  was  be- 
tween him  and  her  which  held  them  apart,  but  which  she 
could  not  understand,  and  could  not  tear  away. 

She  had  never  spoken  to  him  of  it  but  once,  and  that  was 
amid  the  spicy  breezes  and  rich  blooms  of  the  south  of 
France,  and  then  he  had  answered  wearily,  putting  her 
clinging  arms  gently  from  around  his  neck : 

“lam  not  demonstrative,  Geraldine — that  is  all.” 

But  it  was  not  all,  and  in  her  heart  of  hearts  she  felt  it. 

Yet  from  that  hour  she  proudly  held  her  peace,  and  that 
vague  something  which  held  them  apart  grew  day  by  day. 

About  the  last  arrival  at  the  ball  was  Madame  Astreea. 

She  came  in  company  with  her  legal  adviser,  an  old 
gentleman  who  knew  vastly  more  about  her  possessions 
than  he  did  about  herself.  In  fact,  he  knew  nothing  more 
about  her  than  did  any  one  else  who  met  her  in  New  York. 

He  accompanied  her  to  the  door  of  the  dressing-room, 
and  left  her  there  to  be  divested  of  her  ermine  and  velvet 
wrapping. 

She  started  involuntarily  as  she  caught  sight  of  the 
woman  in  attendance  there,  who  came  forward  to  assist 
her. 

That  woman  was  Bridget  Conner. 

“ Bridget  will  recognize  me!  If  she  does  not,  then  no 
one  else  can,”  Daisy  whispered  tremulously  under  her 
breath. 

The  faithful  hands  of  the  Irishwoman,  which  had  so 
often  touched  her  in  affection,  and  the  honest  eyes  which 
had  looked  so  often  into  hers,  were  on  her  now. 

There  was  a keen  scrutinizing  look  in  the  eyes,  but  there 
was  no  recognition. 

How  Daisy  longed  to  throw  her  arms  around  that  stout 
figure,  and  feel  the  throbbings  of  that  true  heart  against 
her  own ! 

But  she  restrained  herself ; she  even  gazed  fearlessly  into 
the  “ eyes  of  Irish  blue,”  and  asked,  as  a perfect  test  of  her 
state  of  incognito : 

Will  you  look  closely  at  me,  please,  and  see  if  my  hair 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


94 

is  disarranged,  or  my  face  smutted  with  the  dust  and  soot 
that  are  always  flying  about  the  streets?” 

Bridget  did  as  she  was  requested,  and  shook  her  head 
with  a little  smothered  sigh. 

“ Sure,  ye’re  all  right,  and  as  putty  as  a blessed  angel.” 
“ Thank  you,”  Daisy  said,  ana  then  she  asked  carelessly: 
“ Did  you  ever  see  any  one  who  resembled  me?” 

Again  Bridget  shook  her  head  and  sighed : 

“No;  I never  knew  any  one  like  ye,  but  ye  make  me 
think  of  a poor,  sweet  creature  that’s  gone  l” 

Daisy  turned  to  descend  to  the  parlors. 

“ I am  safe ; he  will  not  recognize  me,”  she  muttered. 

The  light  words  of  the  young  girl,  “ I advise  you  to 
keep  an  eye  on  your  husband  when  she  comes,”  worried 
Geraldine. 

Already  an  instinctive  jealousy  toward  this  fascinating 
Madame  Astraea,  whom  neither  she  nor  her  husband,  to 
her  knowledge,  had  ever  seen,  sprung  up  in  her  heart. 

Geraldine  was  herself  a beautiful  and  an  attractive 
woman,  and  she  and  the  young  girl  were  not  left  alone  to- 
gether  more  than  five  minutes  before  they  were  joined  by 
two  military  dignitaries. 

“Ah,  madam,  I am  fortunate  in  finding  you  disen- 
gaged, ” one  of  them  said,  bending  stiffly  to  oner  his  arm 
to  the  lady.  “Will  you  honor  me  by  taking  a promenade 
with  me?” 

Geraldine  placed  her  hand  on  his  arm  and  they  saun- 
tered off  together. 

“This  Madame  Astraea,”  Geraldine  said,  speaking  ab- 
ruptly, “tell  me,  is  she  so  very  beautiful — so  very  fascinat- 
ing ?” 

Colonel  Devere  bent  his  shaggy  head  reverentially. 
“Until  your  arrival,  madam,  she  was  the  most  beautiful 
— the  most  fascinating  woman  in  New  York.” 

At  that  moment,  Madame  Astraea,  leaning  on  the  arm 
of  her  white-haired  attorney,  entered  the  room,  and  was 
instantly  surrounded  by  a bevy  of  persons,  prominent 
.among  whom  were,  of  course,  the  host  and  hostess. 

Geraldine  caught  but  a momentary  glimpse  of  a woman 
with  snowy  hair,  arrayed  in  a robe  of  dark  blue  velvet, 
which  swept  in  a long  train  from  a petticoat  of  old  gold 
satin  elaborately  embroidered  in  roses  and  birds  of  para- 
dise, and  diamonds  glittered  in  her  hair  and  on  her  neck 
and  arms. 

In  a half  minute  the  figure  so  richly  attired  was  hidden 
from  Geraldine’s  sight,  and  no  suspicion  flashed  through 
her  mind  that  this  “beautiful  mystery” — this  petted  and 
toasted  idol  of  society— was  her  hoydenish  cousin  Daisy. 


DAISY  DARRELL* 


Colonel  Devere,  as  he  walked  on  with  her,  remarked, 
uttering  the  truth  unconsciously : 

“That  is  your  rival.” 

Saying  that,  he  passed  along  the  wide  parlors,  and  it  was 
a half  hour  before  Geraldine  again  caught  a sight  of  her 
husband. 

She  met  him  walking  arm-in-arm  with  a gentleman,  and 
as  the  two  couples  approached  each  other,  the  gentleman 
who  was  with  Clifford  remarked,  laughingly : 

“ Your  husband  was  desperate  at  your  absence,  madam, 
and  I proposed  the  best  substitute  that  I could  think  of  for 
your  charming  society,  that  of  Madame  Astraea.  I am 
taking  him  now  to  introduce  him  to  her.” 

So  smilingly  they  passed  on  toward  the  “beautiful 
mystery.” 


CHAPTER  XXIY. 

“PERHAPS  I REMIND  YOU  OF  SOME  ONE  YOU  HAVE  KNOWN!” 

Daisy  was  standing  in  the  center  of  a coterie  of  ad- 
mirers, showing  like  a queen  in  the  magnificence  of  her 
attire. 

In  a glance  which  she  cast  beyond  her  entertainers,  she 
saw  two  gentlemen  approaching  her. 

One  of  them  was  Clirford  Bancroft. 

At  the  sight  of  him  a shock,  something  like  that  pro- 
duced by  a galvanic  battery,  went  through  her. 

For  an  instant  a dark  flush  stained  her  face,  and  then  it 
receded,  leaving  her  of  an  unearthly  whiteness.  The 
pupils  of  her  eyes  dilated  until  only  a slender  rim  of  blue 
was  visible  around  them,  and  they  glittered  like  stars. 

“ Madame  Astraea,  permit  me  to  present  my  friend,  Mr. 
Clifford  Bancroft,  of  this  city.” 

The  words  had  been  pronounced  by  Clifford’s  companion, 
and  Madame  Astraea  turned  her  face  toward  them  as  if 
just  apprised  of  their  proximity. 

She  raised  her  eyes  and  fixed  them  full  on  the  dreamy 
black  orbs  which  she  remembered  sc  well,  and  she  saw,  or 
fancied  she  saw,  a startled  look  break  for  a moment  into 
them  as  they  gazed  down  into  her  upturned  face. 

It  was  only  a momentary  expression,  however,  and  then 
it  died  away,  and  his  handsome  head  was  bent  low  before 
her  for  an  instant,  and  then  his  voice — that  low,  courteous 
voice  she  remembered  so  well — spoke  to  her,  saying : 

‘ ‘ May  I have  the  honor  of  this  waltz  with  Madame  As- 
traea ?” 

“No,”  she  answered,  and  her  tone,  although  perfectly 
calm,  had  an  unnatural  sound,  “ I do  not  intend  to  dance 
to-mght.” 


96 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


Her  eyes,  still  dark  and  glittering,  and  looking  black  in 
the  gaslight,  had  never  been  removed  from  his,  and  he 
gazed  into  them  with  a strange  thrill  at  his  heart. 

Yet  he  had  seen  in  them  no  reminder  of  the  saucy  blue 
eyes  of  his  child  wife,  Daisy. 

A powerful  magnetism  seemed  to  attract  him  to  this 
woman.  He  felt  himself  drawn  to  her  as  by  an  invisible 
cord. 

He  forgot  the  presence  of  the  coterie  of  admirers  he  had 
disturbed.  He  bent  his  head  and  spoke  to  her: 

“Will you  not  promenade  with  me  ?” 

Unhesitatingly  she  placed  her  hand  on  his  arm,  and  with 
a bow  and  a smile  of  adieu  to  the  party  she  was  leaving 
she  walked  away  with  him. 

There  was  a singular  feeling  over  Daisy.  She  seemed  to 
herself  to  have  lost  her  individuality.  She  felt  as  if  she 
were  a sort  of  stranger  to  herself,  because  she  did  not  un- 
derstand the  feeling  that  was  over  her. 

What,  at  that  moment,  was  the  sentiment  she  enter- 
tained toward  this  man  who  had  been  the  one  love  of  her 
life? 

She  could  not  have  told,  had  the  question  been  put  to  her. 
She  only  knew  that  every  pulse  was  athrill  within  her. 

They  spoke  not  a word.  They  passed  down  the  brill- 
iantly lighted  parlors ; they  threaded  the  crowd  in  silence, 
unconscious  of  the  attention  they  attracted,  as  a rarely 
handsome  couple. 

They  were  not  conscious,  either,  of  that  silence,  which 
neither  of  them  had  any  desire  to  break. 

The  v entered  the  conservatory,  which  was  lighted  by  col- 
ored lamps,  and  sweet  with  the  breath  of  myriads  of 
flowers. 

They  seated  themselves  on  a rustic  bench  beside  the 
fountain,  where  a marble  Hebe,  gracefully  poised,  poured 
a ceaseless  stream  of  water  from  a marble  cup,  making  a 
drowsy  music. 

Madame  Astraea  looked  at  the  lily  bending  over  the  pool, 
and  sprinkled  with  the  crystal  drops,  as  with  diamonds— 
and  Clifford  Bancroft  looked  at  her. 

“We  have  met,  I know,  for  the  first  time  to-night,”  he 
said,  speaking  softly,  “yet  it  seems  to  me  that  I have 
known  you  for  a long,  long  time.” 

She  turned  and  looked  full  into  his  face  in  the  tender 
light,  and  her  eyes,  with  their  distended  pupils,  looked 
dark  and  starry. 

“Perhaps  I remind  you  of  some  one  you  have  known,” 
she  said,  speaking  abruptly,  while  a dash  of  red  stained  the 
marble  whiteness  of  her  face. 

He  shook  his  head  slowly. 


DAISY  DARRELL . 


9? 

41  At  the  first  moment  I saw  you,  you  really  did  bring  to 
my  mind  a memory  of  some  one  else.  But  the  likeness  be- 
tween you  and  that  person,  is  the  likeness  which  exists  be- 
tween a star  and  a glow-worm.” 

A feeling  of  fiery  indignation  rose  up  in  her  heart  against 
him  for  uttering  that  comparison. 

Daisy  Darrell  was  dead,  and  Madame  Astrsea  had  arisen 
like  a phoenix  from  her  ashes. 

But  she  resented  the  insult  which  had  been  offered  to  her 
better  self,  and  she  spoke  bitterly : 

44  The  glow-worm,  humble  though  it  may  have  been,  was 
instinct  with  feeling — the  star  is  not.” 

He  looked  keenly  down  into  the  glowing  face. 

She  did  remind  him  of  Daisy,  surely— perhaps  that 
was  why  she  seemed  to  come  to  him  from  the  past,  he 
thought.  Yet,  how  different  from  his  guileless,  hoydenish 
child-wife,  this  proud  and  transcendently  beautiful  woman 
was! 

It  was  herself  that  interested  him— not  the  faint  likeness 
she  bore  to  Daisy.  It  was  herself,  and  not  the  memory  she 
awakened,  that  seemed  to  be  drawing  his  very  heart  out  of 
his  bosom. 

44  You  do  yourself  injustice,”  he  said,  with  something  of 
vehemence,  “when  you  compare  yourself  to  a star  in  its 
soullessness.  It  is  only  in  its  unapproachable  beauty  that 
you  are  like  it.  I believe  you  are  capable  of  the  strongest, 
deepest  feeling.  If  you  loved,  I believe  it  would  be  for  all 
time  and  with  a constantly  growing  intensity.” 

The  feverish  eyes  were  lifted  to  his  as  she  responded  in  a 
strange,  repressed  tone : 

44 1 might  love  as  you  say,  until  that  love  was  slighted- 
and  then  it  would  turn  into  hate.  You  know  that  some 
poet  has  written  that  4 Hell  has  no  fury  like  a woman 
scorned.  ’ And  if  you  have  ever  scorned  one — or  ever  do — 
you  may  find  out  the  truth  of  that  assertion.” 

There  was  a subtle  menace  in  her  words  and  toiies  that 
struck  a chill  through  him. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  she  had  thrown  down  the  gantlet 
of  defiance  to  him — and  a swift,  unaccountable  presenti- 
ment came  to  him  that  between  him  and  her  there  would 
be  war — relentless  war — until  one  should  conquer  the 
other. 

Since  he  had  first  looked  into  the  face  of  this  44  beautiful 
mystery,”  no  thought  of  Geraldine  had  entered  his  mind; 
but  at  this  moment  he  was  strongly  reminded  of  her,  for 
she  came  into  the  conservatory,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  their 
host. 

There  was  a sullen  fire  in  her  eyes,  and  a sullen  look  on 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


her  face,  as  she  spoke  to  Clifford,  without  casting  a glance 
toward  his  companion. 

“Mr.  Bancroft,  I have  been  searching  for  you  every- 
where. It  is  time  for  us  to  make  our  adieus  and  retire. 
You  have  forgotten  that  I am  still  somewhat  of  an  in- 
valid.” 

There  was  a world  of  resentment  in  her  voice  and  man- 
ner as  she  said  that,  turning  away  to  go  out  of  the  green- 
house. 

“Don’t  let  me  detain  you.  Go  with— your  wife,”  Ma- 
dame Astraea  said,  rising. 

He  winced  at  the  tone  of  her  voice ; there  was  so  much 
contempt  in  it,  that  it  seemed  to  burn  him. 

Yet  why  should  she  look  with  disdain  on  Geraldine, 
who,  next  to  herself,  was  the  most  beautiful  woman  at  the 
ball?  he  asked  himself.  But  he  felt  no  anger  toward  her 
for  the  disparagement  of  his  wife.  He  only  felt  how  hard 
it  was  to  tear  himself  away  from  this  fascinating  stranger; 
he  only  felt  that  he  must  see  her  again,  and  that  very 
soon. 

“ May  I call  on  you  at  your  own  home  to-morrow  even- 
ing?” he  asked,  as  they  walked  out  of  the  conservatory 
together. 

“Yes,”  she  responded.  “ I shall  be  at  home  to  you  and 
you  only.” 

To  herself  she  added:  “ The  charm  works.  ‘The  wife* 
is  evidently  jealous  and  quick  to  take  alarm.  She  has 
taken  alarm,  I think,  and  she  will  be  hurt.  So  will  he,  or 
my  name  was  never  Daisy  Darrell.  ‘The  mills  of  the 
gods  grind  slowly,  but  they  grind  exceeding  small.’  ” 

Even  while  those  ominous  ideas  were  running  through 
her  mind,  she  was  smiling  up  into  Clifford  Bancroft’s  face, 
who  was  looking  down  into  her  eyes  with  his  whole  soul 
shining  in  his  own. 

“Until  to-morrow  evening,  then,  good-bye,”  he  said, 
bending  so  low  over  her  that  Geraldine,  who  saw  him  at 
the  moment,  set  her  teeth  together,  and  clinched  her  hands 
in  the  first  spasm  of  that  jealousy  which  was  destined  to 
bring  about  great  results  in  the  bitter  after-time. 

“I’ll  watch  you,  Madame  Astraea,”  she  whispered  to 
herself.  “ I’ll  tear  the  mystery  from  you!  You  can’t  de- 
ceive me  l” 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

“I  DO  NOT  FEAR  HER  1” 

The  day  following  the  New  Year's  ball  was  bitterly  cold. 
The  wind  rushed  up  the  streets,  whistling  keenly  through 


DAISY  DARRELL . 99 

the  falling  sleet,  and  smiting  with  an  ague-fit  the  pedestri- 
ans who  were  not  strongly  fortified  against  its  power. 

The  most  shivering  of  these  pedestrians  was  John  Gold- 
man, who  never  could  stand  the  cold,  as  he  frequently 
declared.  Great,  warm-hearted  fellow  that  he  was,  it  was 
no  wonder  he  found  something  exceedingly  antagonistic 
to  the  cold  weather  in  his  nature. 

So  he  shivered  as  he  plodded  along  the  street,  and  Daisy, 
standing  at  the  window  of  her  palatial  home,  saw  him. 

Over  the  marble  whiteness  which  her  face  had  worn  for 
so  many  months  broke  a bright  flush. 

She  turned  and  spoke  hurriedly  to  a young  girl  who  was 
sitting  and  sewing  in  the  room,  and  said : 

“Miss  Woodruff,  will  you  do  me  the  favor  to  call  that 
man  in  the  fur  cap  who  has  just  passed,  and  tell  him  I 
want  to  see  him?  his  name  is  John  Goldman.” 

The  young  seamstress  was  on  her  feet  in  an  instant,  and 
had  darted  from  the  room. 

Five  minutes  afterward  she  reappeared,  and  John  Gold- 
man, cap  in  hand,  and  looking  very  much  puzzled,  fol- 
lowed her  into  the  room. 

Daisy  was  still  standing  by  the  window,  and  the  dark, 
damask  curtain,  which  she  had  drawn  down  before  his 
entrance,  threw  a deeper  shadow  of  the  gloomy  day  over 
her  face. 

Without  stirring  from  her  position,  she  spoke  to  him, 
and  her  voice  was  low,  and  slightly  unsteady: 

“ Your  name  is  John  Goldman,  is  it  not?”  she  asked. 

“Yes,  ma’am,”  John  answered,  gazing  earnestly  into 
her  face,  with  a troubled  look  coming  into  his  own,  be- 
cause of  the  painful  memory  she  awakened  of  his  lost 
friend,  Daisy. 

But  no  suspicion  of  her  identity  crossed  his  mind— for 
what  possible  connection,  save  that  made  by  a chance  re- 
semblance, could  there  be  between  the  wealthy  and  courted 
Madame  Astrsea,  and  the  poor,  friendless  waif  he  had 
picked  up  on  the  roadside  a year  and  a half  before?  he 
thought  with  a sigh. 

She  came  out  from  the  shadow  of  the  window  where 
she  had  been  standing,  and  extended  her  hand,  glittering 
with  jewels,  to  him  in  greeting,  and  as  he  touched  it 
timidly,  she  said,  motioning  him  to  a seat  opposite  the  one 
she  herself  took: 

“You  are  wondering  what  I want  with  you,  Mr.  Gold- 
man. Well,  I will  tell  you.  I once  knew  a poor,  unfort- 
unate girl  whom  you  befriended  in  a time  of  terrible  need. 
You  picked  her  up  where  she  had  fallen  from  exhaustion 
on  the  roadside,  and  took  her  to  your  own  homo,  where 


100  DAISY  DARRELL. 

you  and  your  mother  cared  for  her— until  she  was  able  to 
care  for  herself.” 

John  could  contain  himself  no  longer.  He  sprung  up 
ftrom  his  seat  and  went  and  bent  over  Madame  Astrsea, 
asking  eagerly : 

“ You  mean  Daisy.  Where  is  she?” 

Madame  Astrsea  shook  her  head,  and  the  lids  drooped 
over  her  eyes,  in  which  the  red  firelight  had  been  showing 
a sort  of  mist. 

“She  is  dead,”  she  said,  and  her  voice  was  chillingly 
hard.  “The  young  person  whom  you  knew  is  no  more. 
But  she  was  warm-hearted  and  grateful  for  your  kindness, 
and  I promised  her,  that  if  ever  it  came  into  my  power  to 
do  you  a favor,  I would  do  it  in  her  name,  and  would  beg 
you  to  accept  it  for  her  sake.” 

John  had  returned  to  his  seat,  and  his  head  was  bent  and 
the  shine  of  the  fire  fell  on  two  tears  that  rolled  slowly 
down  his  cheeks,  and  dropped  from  the  ends  of  his  tawny 
mustache. 

He  was  not  looking  at  Madame  Astreea,  and  she  was  not 
looking  at  him;  and  as  he  kept  silence  she  continued 
speaking: 

“Is  your  mother  still  alive,  Mr.  Goldman?” 

“ Yes,  ma’am,”  John  answered,  lifting  his  hand  to  brush 
the  mist  from  his  eyes  with  the  back  of  it.  “ Mother  is  in 
good  health,  and  strong  for  an  old  lady.  ” 

“Daisy  was  under  the  impression  that  the  place  you 
lived  at  when  she  was  with  you  was  not  yours,  I think.” 

“No,  ma’am,”  John  answered,  with  tne  simple  dignity 
which  marked  his  every  word  and  act.  “We  are  poor 
people,  we  never  owned  a foot  of  ground  in  our  lives,  and 
my  father  before  me  never  did,  but  we  never  owed  a debt; 
we  have  managed,  mother  and  I,  to  scuffle  along  and  live 
and  keep  clear  of  debt.” 

He  made  the  assertion  with  proud  humility,  and  Madame 
Astrsea  listened  to  him  with  respectful  interest.  When  he 
ended  she  said : 

‘ ‘ I sent  for  you  to  make  a proposition  to  you,  and  remem- 
ber, whether  you  accept  or  reject  it,  that  you  owe  me  no 
obligation,  no  thanks.  I am  acting  only  for  Daisy,  the  poor 
unfortunate  whom  you  and  your  mother  befriended,  and 
who  is  no  more.  I have  purchased  a farm  on  the  Hudson, 
where  I expect  to  spend  a few  weeks  during  the  summer, 
but  which  I do  not  propose  to  take  any  control  over.  The 
farm  is  well  stocked;  the  house  completely  furnished.  If 
you  and  your  mother  will  take  charge  of  that  farm,  I will 
ask  you  no  rent,  and  whatever  the  profits  of  the  place  may 
be,  they  shall  be  wholly,  unquestioningly  yours  and  your 
mother’s.  It  is  only  a few  hours’  travel  down  the  river : it 


DAISY  DARRELL . 


101 


is  called  Silver  View.  You  can  go  and  see  it  if  you  like, 
any  day,  and  if  you  are  willing  to  accept  the  proposition, 
which  is  made  wholly  for  Daisy’s  sake,  remember,  I shall 
be  very  glad.  No,  no,  don’t  thank  me,  please,  I am  only 
paying  a debt  for  Daisy.” 

In  his  astonishment  and  gratitude  he  had  arisen  to  his 
feet,  and  was  uttering  some  incoherent  acknowledgments 
of  her  kindness,  when  she  waved  him  away,  and  turning 
to  the  seamstress,  who  had  resumed  her  sewing,  she  said : 

“Miss  Woodruff,  go  down  to  the  conservatory  with  Mr. 
Goldman,  please,  and  gather  a basket  of  flowers  for  his 
mother.  Daisy  said  she  was  fond  of  them.” 

The  young  girl  arose,  and  John,  fully  understanding 
that  he  was  dismissed  by  his  beautiful  and  mysterious 
patroness,  bowed  awkwardly,  and  followed  his  conductress 
into  the  conservatory. 

He  spent  a very  pleasant  half  hour  there  among  the 
flowers,  in  company  with  Maggie  Woodruff,  whose  spirits 
were  generally  as  high  as  the  color  of  her  hair — which  was 
a vivid  red— and  whose  wit  was  as  bright  and  piercing  as 
her  blue  eyes. 

She  was  so  prettily  saucy,  yet  withal  so  gentle  and  sen- 
sible and  kind  of  heart,  that  somehow  or  other  John  felt 
happier  than  he  had  done  for  many  and  many  a day,  and 
realized  that  life  was  very  sweet,  even  though  he  might 
not  be  permitted  to  share  it  with  Daisy. 

While  he  was  watching  MaggieWoodruff’splump  fingers 
arranging  the  flowers  in  the  basket  for  his  mother,  Madame 
Astreea,  in  her  own  beautiful  room,  was  arraying  herself 
for  the  evening. 

How  exquisitely  fair  she  was  in  the  ruby-colored  velvet 
which  so  perfectly  fitted  her  faultless  figure,  and  with  her 
garnet  jewels  flashing  like  drops  of  blood  in  the  gas- 
light! 

As  she  stood  alone,  surveying  herself  in  the  mirror,  a 
look  that  was  not  pleasant  to  see,  and  which  marred  its 
wonderful  loveliness,  came  into  her  face. 

“I  am  determined  that  he  shall  feel,  pang  for  pang,  all 
the  suffering  he  has  caused  me !”  she  muttered  between  her 
pearly  teeth,  thinking  of  Clifford  Bancroft. 

Three  hours  afterward  she  was  at  the  opera — at  the  very 
same  house  in  which  sho  had  first  been  led  to  suspect  his 
duplicity. 

She  was  in  her  private  box,  and  Clifford  Bancroft  was 
with  her. 

She  and  he  were  the  cynosure  of  many  eyes,  but  he,  at 
least,  had  eyes  only  for  her. 

The  spell  of  her  power  over  him  was  deepening  moment 
by  moment,  and  he  was  her  slave. 


102 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


As  for  her,  her  eyes  were  sparkling,  and  her  cheeks  were 
flushed  with  the  consciousness  of  her  victory. 

She  seemed  to  have  eyes  and  ears  for  him  only ; so  she 
did  not  see,  any  more  than  he  did,  that  his  wife,  from  a 
box  in  a different  part  of  the  hall,  was  watching  them 
feverishly. 

He  had  no  idea  that  Geraldine  intended  to  attend  the 
opera  that  night,  or  he  might  not,  even  in  the  reckless 
mood  that  was  over  him,  have  felt  quite  as  much  at  his 
ease  as  he  did. 

On  leaving  her  three  hours  before,  he  had  told  her  that 
an  engagement  which  he  could  not  break,  called  him  away, 
and  he  had  left  her  without  explaining  the  nature  of  that 
engagement. 

After  he  left,  some  lady  friends  had  dropped  in  to  see 
her  on  their  way  to  the  opera,  and  had  prevailed  on  her  to 
accompany  them.  So  she  had  gone  without  dreaming 
that  she  should  see  her  husband  there,  and  the  sight  of 
him  in  company  with  the  “Beautiful  Mystery”  was  such 
a shock  to  her  as  only  a madly  jealous  woman  can  under- 
stand. 

“There  is  your  husband  with  the  fascinating  Madame 
Astrsea,”  giddy  Bessie  Vale  whispered  to  her,  nodding  her 
pretty  head  toward  the  box  where  the  two  were  sitting. 
“ I cautioned  you  at  the  ball  last  night  to  take  care  how 
you  trusted  him  in  the  circle  of  her  power.  She  is  a siren, 
and  no  mistake.” 

Geraldine  only  tossed  her  proud  head  disdainfully,  and 
smiled. 

“ I do  not  fear  her!”  she  said. 

But  in  her  heart  she  knew  that  she  had  spoken  falsely, 
and  that  she  did  fear  her— and  that  she  hated  her  also, 
with  a burning  hate. 

To  herself  she  said: 

“ If  she  comes  between  him  and  me,  they  shall  both  repent 
it  J As  surely  as  she  does  it,  I will  do  something  des- 
perate !” 

What  that  “ something”  would  be  she  never  intimated 
even  to  herself.  She  only  felt  that  she  was  capable  of 
carrying  out  the  vow  she  made  to  herself  there,  and  re- 
peated again,  hours  afterward  in  her  own  room : 

“ If  she  comes  between  him  and  me  they  shall  both  re- 
gret it,  even  if  I bring  destruction  down  on  my  own  head 
m taking  vengeance  on  them !” 

Between  Geraldine  and  Clifford  the  name  of  Madame 
Astrsea  was  never  mentioned,  but  she  was  constantly  and 
torturingly  present  in  the  mind  of  each. 

Clifford  made  no  struggle  against  her  power,  no  effort  to 


DAISY  DARRELL.  103 

free  himself  from  the  fatal  charm  of  her  beauty.  Reck- 
lessly he  gave  himself  up  to  it,  and  lived  only  for  her. 

The  unbroken  silence  which  Geraldine  maintained  on  the 
subject  might  have  been  likened  to  the  deceiving  white 
heat  of  iron,  or  to  the  ominous  calm  that  precedes  a tem- 
pest; for  the  maddening  jealousy  within  her  was  gathering 
power  day  by  day. 

Madame  Astraea  was  to  Clifford  Bancroft  a sort  of  brill- 
iant star,  beautiful,  glittering— but  far,  so  far  beyond  his 
reach. 

When  he  would  have  declared  the  love  that  was  con- 
suming his  life,  as  it  were,  one  glance  of  her  blue  eyes  was 
sufficient  to  arrest  the  torrent  of  words  on  his  tongue. 

He,  too,  was  madlv  jealous.  She  was  an  idol  with  men. 
A score  of  the  most  brilliant  “ catches  ” in  New  York  vied 
for  the  possession  of  her  hand,  and  would  have  groveled  in 
the  dust  at  her  dainty  feet  for  but  one  smile  from  those  red 
lips.  And  the  smile  came,  but  it  was  for  all — no  one  in 
particular  could  have  been  pronounced  the  favorite  with 
her. 

All  this  drove  Clifford  Bancroft  wild  with  iealousy,  and 
rage.  It  was  even  to  himself  an  unaccountable  feeling,  but 
he  entertained  a strong  sense  of  proprietorship  in  her. 

The  queer  and  most  inexplicable  idea  that  she  belonged 
to  him  grew  stronger  and  stronger  with  him  every  day. 
He  no  longer,  even  vaguely,  associated  her  with  Daisy — he 
never  thought  of  comparing  her  with  any  one.  She  was 
peerless. 

Of  Daisy,  his  prettv,  hoydenish  child  wife,  he  never 
thought  at  all  during  those  feverish  days. 

What  Madame  Astraea  thought  of  him  he  did  not  know; 
he  only  knew  that  she  held  him  silent  when  he  would  have 
spoken  of  his  passion— quelled  the  rising  torrent  of  words 
by  a quick  glance  of  her  blue  eyes  which  he  could  no  more 
refuse  to  obey  than  he  could  have  stifled  that  love  in  his 
heart.  He  had  become  a subject  of  gossip  because  of  his 
blind  worship  of  the  fascinating  widow,  and  these  mali- 
cious remarks  were  constantly  reaching  the  ears  of  Geral- 
dine, and  were  making  a fury  of  her. 

One  morning  Clifford  Bancroft  called  as  usual  at  the 
home  of  Madame  Astraea,  and  was  told  that  she  had  left 
an  hour  before  for  Silver  View,  her  country  residence 
on  the  Hudson,  and  that  she  had  been  escorted  by  Colonel 
Devere. 

In  an  instant  his  unreasoning  rage  and  jealousy  flamed 
up. 

What  right  had  she  to  put  herself  under  the  protection  of 
Colonel  Devere? 

It  was  that  singular  feeling  of  proprietorship  in  her 


104 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


which  caused  the  sense  of  personal  injury  the  knowledge 
of  her  departure  with  the  military  beau  awoke  within 
him. 

He  must  see  her;  he  must  come  to  an  understanding 
with  her.  He  would  go  to  Silver  View;  he  would  speak 
and  she  should  listen ! 

He  and  Geraldine  still  lived  with  his  uncle,  Hr.  Burnie, 
and  there  had  never  been  any  outspoken  division  between 
them;  only  that  silently  widening  gulf  separated  them, 
and  they  never  mentioned  it  to  each  other. 

The  evening  of  the  day  on  which  Madame  Astraea  had 
gone  to  Silver  View — and  which  was  early  in  April— he 
said  to,  Geraldine,  encountering  her  in  the  hall  of  their 
home: 

“ I am  going  away  for  a few  days  on  a fishing  excursion. 
Good-bye.” 

He  passed  on  out  of  the  house,  and  took  passage  on  a 
steamer  for  Silver  View— or  rather  for  the  village  of  Riv- 
erton, which  was  in  its  immediate  vicinity. 

Bad  news  seems  to  travel  on  the  wind,  it  makes  such 
haste  to  reach  the  ears  that  it  falls  heaviest  on.  So  in  less 
than  twenty-four  hours  Geraldine  knew  that  Clifford  had 
gone  to  Madame  Astrsea. 

Her  face  grew  very  white  when  she  heard  it,  and  she 
clutched  her  heart  as  if  she  were  smothering,  and  she 
gasped  for  breath ; and  her  maid,  who  had  given  her  the 
information,  brought  her  a glass  of  water,  being  thor- 
oughly frightened  at  the  effect  her  gossip  had  on  her 
mistress. 

“Mary,”  Geraldine  said  sternly,  while  her  great  dusky 
eyes  glowed  like  live  coals,  “make  preparations  to  go  to 
Riverton  with  me  this  evening.  I will  follow  my  husband, 
and  before  morning  he  and  his  lady-love  will  learn  that  1 
won’t  submit  tamely  any  longer  to  insult  and  injury  1” 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

“she  deserved  no  pity  from  ME  I” 

Fate  or  Chance,  whichever  it  may  be,  seems  often  to 
combine  with  some  wicked  human  force  to  bring  about  an 
evil  result. 

It  appeared  to  do  so  in  the  case  of  Geraldine,  who,  mad 
with  jealousy,  and  feeling  herself  disregarded  and  her 
rights  trampled  upon  by  her  husband  and  his  enchantress, 
had  gone  to  Riverton  with  some  dire  purpose  in  her  mind. 
It  was  near  sunset  when  she  arrived  there,  and  she  took  up 
her  abode  at  the  village  hotel. 

Had  her  husband  engaged  board  at  the  same  house?  she 
wondered. 


DAISY  DARRELL . 


105 


She  sent  for  the  clerk,  and  inquired  of  him: 

44  Is  there  a gentleman  by  the  name  of  Bancroft  stopping 
here 

The  man  nodded. 

4 4 He  engaged  a room  here  yesterday  evening,  but  he 
spends  most  of  his  time  at  Silver  View.  He  seems  to  be  a 
particular  friend  of  Madame  Astraea’s,  who  lives  there.’” 

44  That  is  all  I wished  to  know,”  Geraldine  said  curtly, 
and  the  clerk  nodded  to  her  and  retired. 

But  in  one  respect  he  had  misled  his  lodger,  for  Clifford 
Bancroft  was  not  at  that  hour  in  company  with  Madame 
Astraea. 

He  was,  instead,  five  miles  distant  from  her  on  a fishing 
excursion  with  Colonel  Devere. 

It  is  true  that  Madame  Astraea  was  to  have  been  in  the 
party,  but  she  excused  herself  from  joining  them  at  noon 
on  the  pleja  of  a severe  headache,  and  much  against  the 
will  of  Clifford  Bancroft,  at  least,  the  gentlemen  departed 
without  her. 

With  a feeling  of  unrest  over  her  which  forbade  her  re- 
maining in  the  house,  Geraldine  wandered  alone  on  the 
margin  of  the  river. 

Like  a great  ball  of  fire,  the  sun  was  sliding  down  the 
sky,  and  the  passing  wind  struck  damply  on  her  face,  as  if 
its  wings  were  moist  with  the  rising  storm  which  was  al- 
ready blotting  the  redness  from  the  sky. 

Low  mutterings  of  thunder  came  now  and  then  to  her 
ears,  as  she  wandered  on  and  on  beside  the  leaden-hued 
river. 

Suddenly  the  ominous  silence  was  broken  by  the  clatter 
of  a horse’s  feet,  and  in  another  instant  the  animal  ap- 
peared in  sight,  bearing  a graceful  and  beautiful  rider. 

At  the  same  moment  a startling  peal  of  thunder  broke 
from  the  sky,  and  a flash  of  zigzag  lightning  that  looked 
like  a fiery  serpent  seemed  suddenly  to  dart  from  the  sky, 
and  played  between  Geraldine  and  the  horse,  which  was 
very  near  her. 

It  was  so  vivid  that  both  she  and  the  animal  were  fright- 
ened by  it. 

Geraldine  flung  up  her  arms,  uttered  a sharp  shriek,  and 
the  mettled  horse  reared  and  plunged. 

With  wide  eyes,  she  saw  him  spring  to  one  side  of  the 
road,  and  then — 

She  saw  him  tumble  over  the  embankment,  and  both 
he  and  his  rider  fell  into  the  water  ten  feet  below. 

At  that  moment  she  recognized  the  rider. 

It  was  her  rival,  Madame  Astrsea ! 

Her  first  impulse  had  been  to  fly  to  the  village  for  help 
to  succor  the  unfortunate  lady  from  death,  if  possible. 


106 


DAISY  DARRELL . 


But  that  had  been  before  she  recognized  the  imperiled 
person ; when  she  did  so,  the  impulse  of  humanity  left  her. 

For  one  horrible  minute  she  stood  on  the  embankment, 
looking  down  on  the  beautiful  form  that  was  struggling 
with  the  plunging  steed  in  the  water. 

“ What  pity  for  her— she  has  murdered  my  happiness!” 
she  muttered  with  stiff,  colorless  lips. 

Then  she  turned  and  ran  back  to  the  hotel,  with  the 
thunder  roaring,  and  the  lightning  flashing  over  her,  and 
with  the  rain,  which  began  to  fall  in  a deluge,  pelting  her 
unmercifully. 

White  and  trembling  she  went  up  to  her  room,  where 
Mary,  her  maid,  exchanged  her  dripping  garments  for  dry 
ones. 

The  girl  attributed  her  disturbed  condition  wholly  to  the 
excitement  and  terror  of  being  caught  in  the  dreadful 
storm  that  was  fairly  bombarding  the  house,  and  her  mis- 
tress did  not  undeceive  her. 

“Bring  me  a cup  of  strong  coffee,”  Geraldine  com- 
manded her,  as  she  threw  herself,  white  and  shivering  still, 
on  the  bed.  “ And  then  leave  me  alone — I am  not  well.” 

The  maid  did  as  she  was  bidden,  and  then  left  Geraldine 
alone,  with  the  stormy  darkness  deepening  around  her. 

A great  horror  was  over  her — she  constantly  saw  before 
her  that  steed  and  its  rider  plunging  over  the  embank- 
ment into  the  river.  She  constantly  saw  the  graceful 
figure,  and  the  white,  terrified  face  of  that  unfortunate 
rider  struggling  in  the  water. 

And  she  felt  as  if  she  were  a murderess ! 

She  knew  that  her  own  involuntary  gesture  and  shriek 
had  added  to  the  madness  of  the  animal,  and  had  partly 
caused  him  to  take  that  fatal  plunge ! 

And  she  had  made  no  effort  to  undo  the  mischief  she  had 
helped  to  bring  about ! 

She  had  left  her  rival  to  die ! 

Notwithstanding  the  great  horror  that  was  over  her, 
there  was  also  a feeling  of  fierce  exultation  that  vengeance 
had  overtaken  the  woman  who  had  come  between  her  and 
her  husband,  and  had  taken  his  heart  from  her! 

“ She  deserved  no  pity  from  me !”  she  muttered  over  and 
over  again  through  that  long,  tempestuous  night.  “ ‘ An 
eye  for  an  eye,  a tooth  for  a tooth.’  It  is  Bible  law !” 

So  she  sought  to  salve  her  conscience  with  that  stern 
Mosaic  creed ; but  for  all  that  remorse  was  at  work  within 
her,  and  when  the  day  came  it  found  her  looking  like  the 
pallid  ghost  of  herself. 

She  could  not  bear  to  remain  there,  and  so  she  left  in 
the  early  morning,  taking  the  first  steamer  that  touched 
at  the  village  landing  for  New  York  City. 


DAISY  DARRELL . 


107 


But  by  the  time  she  arrived  there,  she  was  ill  almost 
unto  death,  and  in  that  condition  she  was  taken  to  her 
home,  and  a messenger  was  dispatched  for  her  husband, 
who  was  known  to  be  at  Riverton. 

Clifford  Bancroft  was  almost  as  colorless  as  his  wife. 
He  seemed  unfeeling,  too,  inasmuch  as  he  did  not  manifest 
any  anxiety  touching  Geraldine’s  condition. 

“He  never  did  love  her,  poor  lady,”  Mary,  the  maid, 
declared  to  her  betrothed,  the  coachman,  dashing  the 
angry  tears  from  her  eyes.  ‘ ‘ It’s  my  opinion  that  it’s  just 
his  neglect  of  her  that  is  killing  her,  poor  creature.” 

The  girl  had  spoken  truly.  Clifford  Bancroft  did  not  love, 
and  never  had  loved,  Geraldine,  and  he  was  vexed  rather 
than  sympathetic  at  the  illness,  because  he  was  tortured 
with  anxiety  at  the  mysterious  disappearance  of  Madame 
Astrsea  two  days  before,  and  he  would  much  rather  have 
lingered  in  the  neighborhood  of  Silver  View,  and  waited 
for  news  of  her  fate,  than  to  be  watching  beside  the 
sick-bed  of  the  woman  who  called  him  her  husband. 

The  physician  in  attendance  on  Geraldine  had  said  to 
him: 

“ She  has  disease  of  the  heart.  Be  careful  to  guard  her 
against  any  sudden  shock — as  it  might  prove  instantly 
fatal.” 

Clifford  Bancroft  tried  hard  to  do  his  duty  by  her— that 
is,  so  far  as  remaining  near  her  was  concerned — for  he  had 
not  left  her  side  unnecessarily  a moment  since  his  arrival 
early  that  morning,  and  now  the  shadows  of  the  night 
were  falling  darkly. 

Mary  came  in  and  lighted  the  gas,  and  when  she  had 
done  so,  she  handed  a card  to  Clifford,  saying : 

“I  told  the  gentleman  of  Miss  Geraldine’s  illness,  and 
that  you  were  staying  with  her,  but  he  says  he  is  bound  to 
see  you  on  important  business.  He  is  waiting  for  you  in 
the  library.” 

Clifford  glanced  at  the  card,  and  as  he  did  so  his  face 
grew  deathly  pale  with  a presentiment  of  coming  trouble. 

The  name  traced  boldly  on  it  was:  “Reverend  George 
Crawford.” 

He  crumpled  the  ominous  bit  of  pasteboard  in  his  hand, 
and  without  uttering  a word  he  went  from  the  room,  and 
descended  the  old-fashioned  stairway  and  entered  the 
library. 

A slender,  stoop-shouldered  man  dressed  in  black,  arose 
and  turned  his  dark,  bright  eyes  penetratingly  on  Clifford’s 
face,  and,  as  it  was  fully  revealed  by  the  gas-light,  the 
young  man  saw  the  same  countenance,  with  its  look  of  in** 
ward  peace,  which  had  shone  upon  him  and  Daisy  in  the 


106 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


gray  of  that  dawn  when  they  had  been  pronounced  man 
and  wife. 

“My  son,”  Mr.  Crawford  said,  shaking  hands  kindly 
with  him,  “ I came  to  you  because  of  a letter  I received 
just  before  my  departure  for  the  United  States.  It  was 
written  on  the  twenty-fourth  of  September,  one  year  ago, 
and  was  almost  twelve  months  in  reaching  me.  It  was 
written  by  Daisy  Darrell,  the  woman  to  whom  God  permit- 
ted me  to  unite  you  in  marriage  on  the  tenth  of  June  a 
year  ago,  and  who  was  alive  at  the  time  of  your  second 
marriage,  because  her  letter  to  me  was  written  on  the  very 
day  of  that  marriage,  and  after  it  had  taken  place.  My 
son,  a great  wrong  has  been  done — a wrong  against  God— 
against  your  lawful  wife  and  against  the  laws  of  the  land. 
This  letter  charges  against  you  the  crime  of  bigamy.  It 
was  written  by  the  hand  of  your  true  wife,  who  was  Miss 
Daisy  Darrell,  and  who,  if  she  is  yet  living,  is  still  your 
true  wife !” 

“But  she  is  not  alive.  She  was  dead  before  my  last 
marriage.  I,  myself,  saw  her  buried !”  Clifford  exclaimed, 
sinking  down  on  a chair  and  staring  amazedly. 

Mr.  Crawford  placed  the  letter  in  his  hand. 

“ You  are  familiar  with  her  handwriting,  I presume,”  he 
said.  “Examine  that  and  see  if  it  is  genuine.” 

Clifford  looked  down  at  the  open  paper,  and  great  drops 
broke  out  on  his  face.  “Yes,  it  is  surely  hers,”  he  gasped. 
“ My  God,  what  a tangle!” 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

“if  she  is  alive,  she  is  your  wife!” 

Staring  down  in  a dazed  way  at  the  paper,  Clifford  Ban- 
croft mechanically  read  the  accusing  lines  written  in  the 
clear,  round,  school-girl-like  hand,  which  he  would  have 
sworn  was  that  of  his  child- wife  Daisy. 

This  is  how  the  lines  ran: 

“ New  York  City,  September  24,  18^. 

“ Reverend  George  Crawford: 

“Dear  Sir, — You  remember,  do  you  not,  having  mar- 
ried a couple — by  name  Clifford  Bancroft  and  Daisy  Dar- 
rell—at  about  half- past  four  o’clock  on  the  morning  of  the 
tenth  of  June,  in  this  year?  It  was  a secret  marriage,  and 
Clifford  Bancroft  has  taken  advantage  of  my  helplessness 
because  of  having  no  proof,  and  has  married  another  wom- 
an this  day.  With  my  own  eyes  I saw  him  married  to 
my  cousin,  Geraldine  Fitzgerald,  and  I had  no  power  to 
prevent  it,  because  I had  no  proof  that  he  was  already 
married  to  me.  I write  to  you  for  that  proof.  Send  me 


DAISY  DARRELL . 


109 


at  No.  4 B Street,  if  you  please,  a certificate  of  my  mar* 

riage,  that  I may  claim  my  rights. 

“Respectfully, 

“Daisy  Darrell  Bancroft.” 

Mr.  Crawford  had  taken  a seat,  and  he  waited  until 
Clifford  read  the  letter,  with  his  bright  eyes  fixed  on  the 
young  man’s  beaded  face. 

4 4 1 did  not  answer  that  commun  ication,  ” he  said , 4 4 because 
I was  just  on  the  eve  of  returning  home,  and  I determined 
to  attend  to  the  matter  the  very  first  thing  on  arriving  in 
New  York.  I did  go  immediately  to  the  address  mentioned 
there,  which  I found  was  a disreputable  place  kept  by 
one  Dan  Devenant;  who  seemed,  however,  to  be  a good* 
hearted  person,  and  he  told  me  that  he  had  found  the 
young  woman  exhausted  and  fainting  with  hunger  on  the 
street  one  day,  and  had  taken  her  into  his  house,  and  had 
cared,  respectfully,  for  her  until  she  recovered  sufficiently 
to  leave.  That  she  had  asked  permission  to  have  a letter 
addressed  to  that  place,  and  had,  from  time  to  time,  sent 
messengers  to  him  to  inquire  if  any  letter  had  come  for 
her:  but  that  none  had  ever  come.  He  had  lost  sight  of 
her,  he  said,  but  he  recollected  that  she  had  asked  him  to 
direct  her  to  Gray  Street,  and  that  he  had  done  so  when 
he  parted  with  her  the  only  time  he  ever  saw  her.  So, 
having  lost  trace  of  her,  I come  to  you,  and  demand  in 
the  name  of  the  Master  I serve,  that  if  you  have  injured 
that  poor  girl,  you  shall  make  whatever  reparation  lies  in 
your  power.” 

He  had  spoken  kindly,  but  with  undeniable  earnestness, 
and  with  his  long  forefinger  warningly  uplifted,  and  Clif- 
ford Bancroft  saw  him  as  one  sees  a vision. 

The  paper  fell  from  his  unsteady  fingers  to  the  floor,  and 
he  raised  his  hand  and  drew  it  across  his  clammy  fore- 
head. 

What  did  it  all  mean?  Had  there  been  some  terrible 
mistake  when  that  drowned  body  had  been  taken  from  the 
Morgue  and  buried  as  44  Daisy?” 

Dan  Devenant  told  Mr.  Crawford  that  she  had  gone  to 
Gray  Street. 

To  Gray  Street ! That  very  house  in  which  they  were 
sitting  was  on  Gray  Street,  No.  2471 

A startling  memory  rushed  over  him. 

He  recollected  the  woman  he  had  met  in  the  lane  on  the 
night  of  his  arrival  there  with  Geraldine,  the  woman  who 
had  startled  him  so  much  by  her  resemblance  to  Daisy  that 
he  almost  believed  it  had  been  Daisy’s  ghost. 

The  hoarse  words  she  had  spoken  came  back  to  him : 

“It  would  be  well  if  I were  a ghost,  Clifford  Bancroft! 


no 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


It  would  be  better  for  you  to  kill  me  now,  and  so  make  a 
ghost  of  me,  than  to  let  me  live  on  for  the  revenge  I am 
sure  to  take  I” 

He  had  taken  her  for  an  escaped  lunatic  at  the  time,  but 
he  knew  better  now. 

It  was  Daisy,  alive,  and  mad  with  the  consciousness  of 
injury  1 

All  these  ideas  had  rushed  through  his  mind  with  the 
swiftness  and  vividness  of  lightning. 

44 1 believed  her  to  be  dead— I did— before  God,”  he  said 
so  earnestly  that  Mr.  Crawford  was  convinced  of  his  sin- 
cerity, and  pitied  him  from  the  very  bottom  of  his  gentle 
heart. 

44 1 can  find  no  trace  of  her,”  he  said,  4 4 and  she  may  be 
dead,  but  that  fact  must  be  ascertained.  If  she  is  alive, 
she  is  your  wife,  and  any  other  woman  believing  herself 
to  be  such  is  laboring  under  a cruel  mistake.” 

Clifford  shrank  as  if  a blow  had  been  dealt  him. 

44  It  is  terrible!”  he  muttered,  drawing  his  breath  shiver- 
ingly  through  his  teeth,  remembering  Geraldine’s  towering 
pride,  and  the  horrible  fall  that  knowledge  would  bring 
to  it. 

44  Yes,  something  must  be  done,”  he  said.  44 1 have  un- 
wittingly wronged  two  women  instead  of  one.  I can  only 
make  reparation  to  one.” 

He  shivered  convulsively,  realizing  that  if  Daisy  were 
alive  Geraldine  had  better,  oh,  far  better,  be  dead ! 

Mr.  Crawford  clasped  one  of  Clifford’s  cold  hands  in  his, 
and  placed  the  other  kindly  on  his  shoulder. 

4 4 My  son,  I believe  that  you  have  not  willingly  and  wilh 
fully  wronged  any  one.  Put  the  whole  troublesome  mat- 
ter m the  hands  of  God;  keep  up  a brave  heart,  resolving 
to  do  your  duty  when  you  see  it,  and  the  tangled  skein 
will  be  straightened  for  you.” 

He  pressed  the  young  man’s  hand,  and  as  he  parted 
from  him,  he  said : 

44  Do  your  duty.” 

Clifford  answered  sternly : 

44 1 will!” 

At  that  moment,  he  would  have  been  glad  to  feel  that  it 
was  his  duty  to  take  his  own  life,  and  so  put  an  end  to  the 
whole  dreadful  worry. 

But  no  idea  of  that  kind  crossed  his  mind,  and  he  would 
not  have  tolerated  it  an  instant  if  it  had,  for  he  was  young 
and  life  was  very  sweet  to  him. 

He  could  not  meet  Geraldine  yet — he  shivered  at  the 
thought  of  seeing  her — knowing  what  he  did,  and  how  that 
knowledge  must  bow  her  proud  head  with  shame.  No,  he 
could  not  see  her ; so,  when  he  parted  with  Mr.  Crawford 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


Ill 


he  went  out  in  the  yard,  and  wandered  about  under  the 
trees  that  lifted  their  aged  forms  like  giants  in  the  April 
moonlight. 

In  her  weak,  nervous  state  Geraldine  could  not  endure 
his  absence.  She  wanted  him  constantly  with  her ; the 
more  insecure  she  felt  her  hold  on  his  heart  to  be,  the  more 
she  clung  to  him. 

44  Mary,  has  that  visitor  gone?”  she  asked  feverishly. 

“I  don’t  know,  Miss  Geraldine,”  the  girl  responded 
soothingly.  44 1 will  go  and  see.” 

44  Do,  the  invalid  said,  “ and  send  Mr.  Bancroft  to  me.” 

Mary  found  the  library  deserted,  and  as  she  glanced 
around  the  room,  her  eye  caught  sight  of  the  letter  Clifford 
had  dropped  on  the  floor— the  letter  Daisy  had  written  to 
Mr.  Crawford. 

Mary’s  education  had  been  sadly  neglected.  She  could 
not  read  writing,  therefore  all  manuscripts  that  fell  under 
her  notice  had  a strong  fascination  for  her,  so  she  picked 
the  letter  up  from  the  floor,  and  after  turning  it  about  in 
her  hands,  she  muttered : 

“ I’ll  jest  take  it  up  to  Miss  Geraldine.  It  will  satisfy 
her,  and  keep  her  quiet,  may  be,  until  Mr.  Bancroft  comes 
in.” 

With  that  muttered  determination  she  went  out  of  the 
library  and  ascended  to  the  room  of  her  mistress. 

“The  gentleman  is  gone,  and  Mr.  Bancroft  has  just 
stepped  out  somewhere,”  she  said  glibly,  “but  here’s  a let- 
ter I found  lying  on  the  floor,  ana  I thought  may  be  you 
would  like  to  read  it.” 

Geraldine  took  it  with  a petulent  exclamation,  and 
began  to  read  it. 

Cliff ord  Bancroft,  wandering  about  under  the  trees,  heard 
a loud  shriek  proceeding  evidently  from  Geraldine’s  room, 
under  the  open  window  of  which  he  chanced  to  be  passing. 

He  rushed  into  the  house,  mounted  the  stairs,  and 
entered  the  room,  to  find  Geraldine  lying  white  ’and  still 
on  the  bed,  with  the  fatal  letter  in  her  dead  hand. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

“GO  AFTER  CLIFFORD  BANCROFT!  BRING  HIM  HERE!” 

Maggie  Woodruff,  Madame  Astraea’s  seamstress,  was 
Dan  Devenant’s  half-sister,  and  this  is  how  she  happened 
to  have  a place  in  the  house  of  the  44  Beautiful  Mystery.” 

Shortly  after  she  had  become  domiciled  in  her  palatial 
residence  in  New  York,  Madame  Astraeawas  driving  down 
B Street,  and  Dan  Devenant  was  standing  before  the  door 
of  his  decidedly  disreputable  abode. 

Much  to  the  astonishment  of  her  liveried  driver,  M&- 


112 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


dame  Astrsea  pulled  the  check-string  and  beckoned  to  Dan 
Devenant  to  come  to  her;  which  he  did,  looking  quite  aa 
much  puzzled  as  did  her  attendants. 

He  had  no  recollection  of  ever  having  looked  on  that 
exquisite  face  before,  and  he  was  surprised  at  the  question 
she  addressed  to  him : 

“ I had  a friend  once,  sir,  whom  you  obliged ; and  for  her 
sake — you  have  no  recollection  of  her,  I know,  and  it 
would  be  useless  to  mention  her  name— but  for  her  sake  I 
am  willing  to  do  you  a favor  if  I can.  I am  rich,  and  1 
want  some  good,  virtuous  young  girl  for  a seamstress  and 
companion,  and  if  you  have  any  relative  whom  you  would 
like  to  see  in  that  position,  and  who  would  suit  me,  I 
would  employ  her,  because  you  once  did  a service  which  I 
need  not,  and  will  not,  mention,  to  a friend  of  mine.” 

Dan  Devenant  was  a man  of  business,  and  he  grasped  at 
the  idea  and  immediately  mentioned  the  name  of  his  half- 
sister,  Maggie  Woodruff,  whom  he  assured  Madame  Astrsea 
was  a good  country  girl,  who  knew  nothing  of  the  evils  of 
city  life,  and  whom  he  would  be  glad  to  have  kept  in  such 
ignorance,  but  who  could  not,  considering  her  straitened 
circumstances,  afford  to  refuse  a good  position,  when  it 
was  offered  her,  to  make  her  own  living. 

So  Maggie  was  sent  for,  and  gave  great  satisfaction  to 
her  beautiful  patroness. 

It  was  she  who  had  told  Madame  Astrsea  of  Silver  View 
— a country  seat  which  was  for  sale,  and  which  was  sit- 
uated only  a few  miles  from  the  little  cottage  on  the  banks 
of  the  Hudson  Eiver  where  Maggie  lived  with  her  widowed 
mother,  at  such  times  as  she  was  not  ‘‘living  out”  for 
wages. 

Early  in  April  Madame  Astrsea  went  up  to  Silver 
View  with  the  avowed  purpose  of  spending  several  weeks 
with  Mrs,  Goldman  and  her  son  John,  who  had  gladly  ac- 
cepted Madame  Astrsea’s  generous  offer  made  to  John  in 
January. 

Maggie  had  asked  and  obtained  permission  to  visit  her 
mother,  whose  cottage  was  only  a few  miles  distant,  and 
who  was  confined  to  the  house  by  an  attack  of  rheuma- 
tism. 

There  were  times  when  Dan  Devenant— who  to  an  other- 
wise black  character,  coupled  an  exceeding  kindness  of 
heart,  and  a tender  regard  for  his  pious  mother  and  his 
innocent  half-sister — would  weary  of  his  life  of  reckless- 
ness, and  would  go  up  to  the  quiet  little  home  on  the 
bank  of  the  Hudson,  and  for  a few  days  would  bask  in  the 
pure  atmosphere  of  that  humble  home  - and  he  was  always 
sure  of  a cordial  welcome. 

On  the  morning  of  the  day  on  which  Madame  Astrsea’s 


DAISY  DARRELL . 


119 


horse  had  been  so  frightened  by  the  storm  and  by  Geraldine 
as  to  plunge  over  the  embankment  with  his  beautiful  mis- 
tress, Dan  had  appeared  unexpectedly  at  the  Woodruff 
cottage  and  had  passed  a sweet,  quiet  day— a day  of 
blessed  relaxation  to  him — with  his  mother  and  Maggie, 

All  day  long  it  had  been  intensely  warm,  and  late  in  the 
evening  Dan  had  unmoored  Maggie’s  little  boat,  and  had 
gone  rowing  over  the  still  river. 

He  saw  that  a storm  was  coming,  but  he  did  not  fear  it; 
there  was  nothing  on  earth  that  Dan  Devenant  did  fear,  so 
he  paid  no  attention  to  it,  but  kept  rowing  idly  up  the 
river  until  the  thunder  roared,  and  the  lightning  flashed 
ominously  ovei  him. 

The  placid  river  was  ruffled  by  the  rising  wind  and  the 
current  bore  the  light  boat  in  which  he  was  seated  irre- 
sistibly along,  as  though  it  had  been  a straw. 

Dan  Devenant,  who  had  from  his  very  boyhood  set  him- 
self in  defiance  against  whatever  opposed  him,  rather 
enjoyed  this  war  of  wind  and  water,  although  he  was 
rocked  between  the  two  in  his  little  boat  as  if  he  had  been 
in  a cradle,  and  the  clouds  poured  their  floods  fiercely  down 
upon  him. 

He  rested  carelessly  on  his  oars,  and  was  driven  down 
the  current,  and  as  he  glanced  over  the  disturbed  water, 
he  caught  sight  of  a drowned  horse  that  was  being  whirled 
by  the  eddies  and  beaten  by  the  waves  that  b\  oke  upon  the 
rock  against  which  it  had  lodged. 

A dead  horse  was  not  worth  a second  glance,  and  would 
not  have  gotten  it  from  Dan  Devenant’s  bold  eyjs  had  it  not 
been  that  something  attached  to  the  corpse  of  the  quadru- 
ped attracted  him. 

He  caught  up  his  oars  and  he  bent  to  them,  and  he  proved 
that  he  needed,  but  the  will  to  defy  the  strength  of  the  cur- 
rent. 

With  the  muscles  standing  out  on  his  arms  and  the 
drops  on  his  face,  he  turned  the  course  of  his  boat,  and  it 
swam  like  a storm-bird  toward  the  drowned  animal. 

Dan  Devenant  understood  the  situation  at  a glance.  A 
horse  and  his  rider  had  been  plunged  into  the  water,  but 
they  had  not  been  separated. 

The  rider’s  foot  had  been  caught  in  the  stirrup,  and  so 
they  had  floated  down  the  stream  together,  the  lady  and 
her  dead  steed— for  the  horse  was  dead— his  neck  had 
somehow  been  broken  in  the  fall. 

Was  his  mistress  also  a corpse?  She  seemed  to  be,  for 
as  Dan  released  her  foot  from  the  stirrup  and  drew  her 
into  his  boat,  she  lay  where  he  placed  her,  white  and  still 
and  cold,  with  her  dripping  garments  clinging  to  her 


114  DAISY  DARRELL. 

graceful  figure,  and  with  the  rain  beating  pitilessly  down 
upon  her. 

44  If  she  is  dead  it  is  a pity,  a great  pity,  for  I never  saw 
but  one  woman  who  was  as  beautiful,”  Dan  Devenant 
muttered. 

Something  in  the  words  of  his  soliloquy  assisted  his 
memory,  evidently,  for  he  suddenly  bent  over  and  peered 
into  the  exquisite  face,  and  he  exclaimed,  with  sharp  pain 
in  his  voice : 

44  By  Jove,  it  is  her-— it  is  Madame  Astraea!” 

Then,  more  sturdily  if  possible  than  before,  he  bent  to 
the  oars,  and  through  flaming  lightning,  flooding  rain,  and 
and  seething  water  he  made  his  way  homeward. 

44  Oh,  my  son,  is  that  a drowned  woman?”  his  mother 
exclaimed,  as  he  burst  into  the  room  where  she  and  Maggie 
were  sitting  and  waiting  for  Dan  to  return  to  partake  of 
the  supper  which  was  smoking  on  the  hearth  of  the  old- 
fashioned  fireplace. 

44 1 am  afraid  so,  mother,”  Dan  responded,  gently  plac- 
ing his  dripping  burden  on  the  carpet  before  the  blazing 
log  fire  which  had  been  kindled  for  the  purpose  of  prepar- 
ing supper. 

Maggie  bent  over  the  prostrate  figure,  and  then  started 
back,  uttering  a distressed  cry : 

44  Oh,  it’s  Madame  Astraea  I How  on  earth  did  it  hap- 
pen?” 

44  Her  foot  was  caught  in  the  stirrup  of  her  saddle,  and 
her  horse  was  dead,  Dan  responded,  busying  himself 
about  the  unconscious  figure.  44  If  there  is  any  life  left  in 
her  let  us  try  to  restore  her,”  he  added,  impatiently,  and 
Maggie  and  his  mother  throwing  off  the  spell  of  horror 
that  bound  them,  set  to  work  to  coax  into  a blaze  the  spark 
of  life  which  might  yet  be  unextinguished. 

But  was  there  a spark,  however  feeble,  still  burning  there 
in  that  white,  cold  body,  that  more  nearly  resembled  a 
beautiful  statue  than  a human  being  ? 

It  seemed  only  4 4 hoping  against  hope  ” to  encourage  such 
a belief,  but  still  they  did  encourage  it. 

It  seemed  monstrous  to  give  her  up  to  death — she  so 
young — so  beautiful — so  good,  for  at  that  moment  they  ex- 
aggerated her  goodness,  and  they  deified  her,  being  dead. 

For  hours  they  worked  with  her ; they  strove  to  drag 
back  and  imprison  in  its  fair  casket  again  the  soul  that 
seemed  already  to  have  crossed  that  mystical  boundary 
which  can  never  be  recrossed. 

And  all  the  time  the  tnundor  roared,  the  lightning 
flashed  over  the  little  house,  and  the  rain  beat  and  beat 
upon  it. 

It  would  be  daring  Providence,  indeed,  to  venture  out 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


115 


now  upon  the  water  which  they  heard  roaring  and  plung- 
ing outside,  especially  in  such  a craft  as  that  of  Maggie 
Woodruff’s,  and  there  was  no  other  mode  of  reaching  a 
physician. 

So  they  were  compelled  to  trust  to  their  own  skill,  and 
after  awhile  the  result  of  their  efforts  manifested  itself. 

“ Her  lips  moved ! Her  lips  moved!  I saw  it  distinct- 
ly!” Maggie  suddenly  exclaimed,  grasping  her  brother’s 
arm,  and  Dan  could  have  shouted  when  he  saw  that  she 
had  spoken  truly,  and  that  the  feeble  spark  of  life  was 
kindling  into  a flame. 

They  watched  beside  her  all  that  stormy  night,  and  when 
the  morning  came  the  blood  was  coursing  riotously 
through  her  veins,  and  her  mind  ran  riot  also— for,  for 
some  reason,  either  because  of  the  shock  she  had  received, 
or  from  some  other  cause,  she  was  delirious. 

In  the  excitement  that  was  over  him  when  he  landed  the 
night  before,  Dan  had  forgotten  to  secure  the  boat,  and. 
as  the  water  had  risen  between  the  widow’s  cottage  ana 
Riverton,  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  go  for  a physician 
until  the  flood  subsided  sufficiently  to  permit  him  to  walk, 
which  would  be  at  least  thirty-six  hours.  So  there  was  no 
alternative  but  to  trust  to  their  own  skill  in  caring  for  the 
guest. 

Her  delirium  took  to  them  an  inexplicable  form.  She 
was  constantly  pleading  with  some  one — whose  name  she 
never  mentioned— not  to  forsake  her.  And  often  she 
would  turn  to  Din  Devenant  and  cry  out  piteously: 
“ Bring  him  to  me ! Bring  him  to  me !” 

“I  wish  I knew  whom  she  means,”  Dan  said,  shaking  his 
black  hair,  “ and  I would  bring  him  to  her,  if  he  is  to  be 
found,  as  soon  as  the  water  falls  enough  for  me  to  go  for 
the  doctor.” 

“That  will  be  by  to-morrow  morning  at  latest,”  Maggie 
said,  “ and  by  that  time  I will  find  out,  if  I can,  whom  it  is 
she  wants  to  see.” 

That  night  she  did  find  out.  She  had  artfully  coaxed 
the  delirious  woman  to  tell  her  the  name  of  the  person  she 
wanted  to  see,  and  in  the  gray  dawn  of  the  next  day  she 
said  to  her  brother  as  he  was  about  to  set  out  to  Riverton 
for  the  physician:  “Dan,  send  Dr.  Kronly  down,  and  then 
you  go  on  after  Mr.  Clifford  Bancroft.  Bring  him  here ! 
It  is  he  whom  Madame  Astraea,  wants  to  see,” 

Dan  Devenant’s  eyes  opened  wide  with  surprise,  but  he 
nodded  his  head  with  its  straggling  locks  of  black  hair 
and  said  emphatically:  “If  it  is  Clifford  Bancroft  she 
wants  to  see,  he  shall  come  here  if  I have  to  drag  him.” 

“You  won’t  have  to  do  that;  he’ll  be  wiliing  to  come,” 
Maggie  responded,  with  a knowing  dip  of  her  bright  head. 


116 


daisy  Darrell. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

UTHE  MESSAGE  IS  FROM  MADAME  ASTRiEA — SHE  WANTS  TO 
SEE  YOU  1” 

44  I ought  to  have  sent  a note  by  Dan  to  Mrs.  Goldman,” 
Maggie  ruminated  with  a bright  flush  on  her  round  face 
after  her  brother’s  departure.  4 4 They  will  be  very  uneasy, 
for  I have  no  idea  that  they  suspect  what  has  become  of 
Madame  Astrsea.  As  soon  as  the  doctor  comes,  I’ll  go  to 
Riverton  and  borrow  Tom  Wayts’  boat  and  row  up  to  Sil- 
ver View  myself  and  tell  them!” 

The  resolve  set  her  heart  to  fluttering  in  a way  that 
would  have  been  inexplicable  if  no  one  was  living  at  Silver 
View  but  old  Mrs.  Goldman.  Yet  it  were  not  hard  to  com* 
prehend  when  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Goldman’s  son  John 
was  taken  into  account. 

Maggie  and  John  had  been  thrown  a good  deal  together 
through  the  agency  of  Madame  Astrsea,  but  neither  of 
them  suspected,  any  design  on  the  part  of  that  lady  to 
interest  them  in  each  other,  and  had  never  acknowledged, 
even  to  their  own  secret  souls,  that  such  a state  of  affairs 
had  come  to  exist  between  them. 

Yet  such  a state  of  affairs  had  come  to  exist  between 
them,  and  Madame  Astrsea  knew  it  and  exulted  in  it.  It 
was  a consummation  she  had  most  devoutly  wished  for. 

So  Maggie,  with  a delicious  thrill  at  the  heart,  set  out  on 
her  self-imposed  mission. 

She  borrowed  the  boat  from  Tom  Wayts,  and  seated  in 
it,  she  was  skimming  lightly  up  the  river,  when  she  met 
John  Goldman  pulling  his  own  boat  down  stream. 

His  honest  face  brightened  at  the  sight  of  her,  and  he 
called  to  her  to  attract  her  attention,  for  he  really  believed 
she  had  not  seen  him — she  was  about  to  pass  him  by  as  if 
she  had  not. 

She  blushed  more  rosily  than  ever,  and  nodded  and 
smiled  to  him  when  he  called  her  attention,  and  with  a 
few  strokes  of  his  oar  he  brought  his  boat  alongside  of 
hers. 

44 1 was  just  going  to  see  you,”  John  said,  and  Maggie 
laughed  and  retorted  saucily : 

44  And  I was  just  going  to  see  you— so  we  are  both  of  the 
same  mind,  it  seems.” 

“Well,  then,  Maggie,”  John  said  softly,  reaching  out 
his  hand  to  grasp  ihe  side  of  her  boat,  4 4 let  us  go  in  the 
same  boat— mine  is  the  strongest — so  come  you  into  mine— 
and  we’ll  take  the  other  in  tow.” 

There  was  nothing  in  his  words  to  blush  at,  but  Maggie 


£>AiSY  DARRELt. 


117 


did  blush — perhaps  at  his  tone  of  voice,  or,  perhaps,  at  the 
allegorical  meaning  she  might  have  detected ; but  never 
theless,  she  arose  readily,  and  sprung  lightly  into  his 
stronger  boat,  and  as  they  went  side  by  side  down  the 
river,  she  told  him  of  what  had  befallen  Madame  Astraea, 
and  found  that  he  and  his  mother  had  indeed  been  very 
uneasy  because  of  her  mysterious  disappearance. 

“ She’s  a grand  woman,  Maggie,”  John  said,  with  his  blue 
eyes  glistening.  “Just  think  of  all  that  she  has  done  for 
mother  and  me,  only  because  I was  not  brute  enough  to 
leave  a poor  girl  lying  on  the  roadside  where  she  had  fallen 
in  a faint.  Madame  Astrsea,  for  all  she  is  so  grand  and 
Daisy  was  so  humble,  always  reminds  me  of  her,  and  that’s 
why  I feel  such  a sort  of  reverence  for  her,  I think.  I never 
told  you  about  it,  Maggie,  but  I loved  poor  little  Daisy— 
she  was  the  only  woman  I ever  loved  except  you.” 

There — it  was  out — and  he  had  not  meant  to  tell  it — and 
he  was  blushing  redly  over  it,  and  so  was  Maggie. 

“Suppose  we  go  in  the  same  boat  through  life,  dear," 
John  said,  stealing  his  arm  around  her  waist — and  Maggie 
said  nothing,  but  he  took  her  silence  for  consent,  and  he 
drew  her  head  down  on  his  breast  and  kissed  her.  And  he 
did  not  care  to  have  her  tell  him  that  she  agreed  to  his 
proposition,  and  that  she  would  go  in  the  same  boat  with 
him  through  life,  for  he  felt  confident  that  she  would  do 
it — and  rhht  here  let  us  remark  that  he  was  not  dis- 
appointed in  the  expectation— for  she  did. 

While  John  and  Maggie  were  making  this  important  ar- 
rangement for  their  future  lives,  Dan  Devenant,  having 
sent  the  physician  down  to  to  his  mother’s  cottage,  was  on 
his  way  to  find  Clifford  Bancroft. 

He  knew  that  he  lived  at  number  247  Gray  Street,  and 
he  made  his  way  there. 

He  passed  up  the  long  avenue,  and  lifted  his  hand  to  ring 
the  bell,  but  he  did  not  do  it,  for  he  noticed  that  pendants 
of  black  crape  were  streaming  from  the  knob. 

Dan  Devenant  stood  irresolutely  on  the  steps.  He  shrank 
from  intruding  into  what  he  discovered  by  that  gloomy 
sign  at  the  door  was  a house  of  mourning. 

He  was  about  to  turn  away,  when  the  door  opened,  and 
a servant  appeared. 

It  was  Mary,  and  her  eves  were  red  with  weeping. 

“ I wanted  to  see  Mr.  Clifford  Bancroft,”  Dan  said,  “ but 
I didn’t  know  of  that” — he  nodded  toward  the  crape — 
“ and  I won’t  go  in.  I’ll  see  him  some  other  time.” 

“ The  funeral  will  take  place  at  eleven  o’clock  to-morrow 
morning,”  Marv  said,  “and  after  that  he  may  see  you, 
maybe,  if  your  business  is  important.” 


118 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


u It  is  rather  important,”  Dan  said,  turning  to  go  away  , 
44  and  I’ll  call  to-morrow  afternoon.” 

Clifford  remained  shut  up  in  his  own  room  until  after 
the  funeral. 

Instead  of  the  grief  which  bereaved  ones  feel  at  such 
times,  there  was  with  him  a feeling  of  quiet. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  born  to  bring  ill  luck,  and 
sorrow,  and  death  to  the  women  who  loved  him. 

44  It  is  my  fault— I have  been  such  a weak  man — such  a 
coward ! I ought  to  have  dealt  openly  with  Daisy— openly 
with  Geraldine,  and  then  this  terrible  tangle—  this  awful 
ending— would  never  have  come ! I am  done  with  conceal- 
ments— done  with  acting  a part  henceforth  and  forever! 
Oh ! if  I had  only  been  manly  enough  to  have  pursued 
that  course  when  I first  went  to  Pinelands,  what  a world 
of  misery  might  have  been  saved  me — and  them !” 

Worse  than  the  bitterest  grief  could  have  been  was  the 
keen  remorse  that  was  with  him  during  those  first  hours  of 
his  bereavement. 

The  funeral  was  over,  and  he  had  gone  back,  and  shut 
himself  up  in  his  room  again— refusing  all  refreshments, 
and  denying  himself  to  all  sympathetic  visitors. 

But  there  was  one  caller  who  insisted  on  seeing  him. 

uTell  him  that  I bring  him  a message  from  a person 
who  is  very  ill,”  Dan  Devenant  said,  planting  himself 
firmly  in  the  doorway. 

Mary  went  up-stairs  with  his  message,  and  very  soon 
returned. 

44  Mr.  Bancroft  says  you  may  come  to  his  room.  Follow 
me.” 

So  she  conducted  the  persistent  visitor  into  the  presence 
of  the  widower. 

Clifford  was  standing  on  the  hearth  in  his  darkened 
chamber  with  his  arm  resting  on  the  mantle  when  Dan 
appeared,  and  he  looked  curiously  at  him. 

He  did  not  invite  him  to  be  seated.  He  merely  said 
curtly : 

44  You  have  a message  for  me,  I understand,  sir.  What 
is  it,  and  who  sends  itV” 

4 4 The  message  is  from  Madame  Astrsea,”  Dan  said, 
coolly;  44  she  wants  to  see  you— she  was  very  ill  when  I 
left  her  yesterday  morning,  and  she  may  be  dead  by  this 
time.” 

Clifford  Bancroft’s  face  grew  deathly  pale,  and  he  turned 
it  aside,  so  that  it  was  hidden  from  Dan’s  keen  eyes.  He 
did  not  speak  for  fully  a minute.  He  was  ashamed  that  at 
that  hour  the  possibility  of  any  woman’s  death  save  that 
of  Geraldine  could  stir  his  soul  with  pain. 


DAISY  DARRELL.  lid 

He  hated  himself  for  the  pang  that  the  announcement 
Bent  through  his  heart. 

What  was  it  to  him  whether  Madame  Astraea  were  living 
or  dead  at  that  moment? 

What  was  the  life  or  death  of  any  woman  to  him  now, 
save  only  the  woman  he  had  legally  made  his  wife— Daisy 
Darrell? 

If  Madame  Astraea  had  sent  for  him,  he  would  go  to  her— 
he  could  not  refuse  to  do  that-  -and  if  he  found  her  alive  he 
would  meet  her  as  a brother.  He  would  deal  fairly  and 
candidly  by  her.  He  would  tell  her  all. 

The  resolution  gave  him  courage  to  look  Dan  Devenant 
in  the  face,  while  he  said,  speaking  wearily : 

“ Of  course,  if  she  is  ill,  and  has  sent  for  me,  I must  go 
to  her.  I will  find  her  at  Silver  View,  I suppose.” 

“No,”  Dan  answered.  “I  left  her  at  my  mother’s  cot- 
tage, nearly  five  miles  from  Silver  View,  and  if  she  is  alive 
when  we  arrive,  we  will  be  apt  to  find  her  there.” 

Then  he  briefly  told  the  circumstances  leading  to  her 
being  at  the  cottage  of  the  Widow  Woodruff,  and  when  he 
ended  they  went  away  together.,  and  in  the  gloaming  four 
hours  afterward  Clifford  Bancroft  stood  in  the  little  house, 
and  in  the  presence  of  Madame  Astraea,  who  had  fully  re- 
covered her  consciousness,  and  who  looked  wonderingly  at 
him  as  he  entered  the  tidy  room  in  which  only  the  twilight 
threw  a soft  radiance. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

“no,  no— not  good-bye!” 

The  shock  she  had  undergone  had  left  Madame  Astraea 
very  weak,  but  with  that  exception  no  bad  effects  of  it 
were  remaining  with  her  when  Clifford  Bancroft  entered 
the  room  where  she  was  lying  on  a lounge,  with  Maggie 
sitting  beside  her  in  the  twilight. 

As  her  brother  and  Clifford  appeared  unannounced  in 
the  room,  Maggie  arose  and  offered  the  visitor  her  chair 
beside  Madame  Astraea,  which  he  took  without  a word. 

He  looked  on  the  beautiful  face  lying  there  on  the  pillow 
before  him  as  one  looks  on  the  face  of  the  beloved  dead. 

She  was  the  one  woman  he  loved  with  an  absorbing  love, 
and  he  felt  that  in  yielding  to  the  passion  he  committed  a 
sin  against  her,  against  himself,  and  against  Daisy  Darrell, 
who,  if  she  were  living — and  he  felt  that  she  was— was  the 
only  woman  on  earth  who  had  a right  to  his  love. 

“Why  did  you  come  here,  Mr.  Bancroft?”  Madame 
Astraea  asked,  seeing  that  he  did  not  speak. 

She  put  the  question  in  the  cold,  even  tones  with  which 


DAlSlr  DARRELli 


m 

she  was  accustomed  to  address  him,  and  his  face  flushed 
with  embarrassment  as  he  answered : 

“ I came  at  your  requests— you  sent  for  me.  Did  you  not 
tell  me  that  she  sent  for  me?”  he  asked,  turning  his  face 
toward  Dan  Devenant,  who  had  lingered  in  the  room. 

Dan  answered  respectfully,  addressing  his  words  to  the 
lady,  who  was  looking  sternly  at  him: 

“ I went  for  him,  madame,  because  you  called  inces 
santly  for  him,” he  said,  edging  near  to  the  door,  and  pass 
ing  out  of  it  as  soon  as  he  had  made  the  assertion. 

With  an  instinctive  idea  that  the  explanation  between 
those  two  might  be  of  a confidential  nature,  Maggie,  too, 
had  left  the  room,  and  they  were  alone  together, 

“If  I called  for  you,  I was  delirious,”  Madame  Astraea 
said,  turning  her  face  away  from  him.  “Dan  Devenant 
might  have  had  common  sense  enough  to  know  that  there 
was  no  meaning  in  my  words,  and  he  should  not  have 
gone  for  you.  Why  should  I have  sent  for  you?”  she  went 
on  passionately,  in  her  bodily  weakness  losing  control  of 
her  words,  as  it  were.  “What  are  you  to  me,  or  what 
am  I to  you?” 

Clifford  Bancroft  bowed  his  head  on  his  hands,  and  a 
sort  of  smothered  groan  broke  from  him. 

“ Whatever  you  are  to  me,  I am  glad  that  I am  nothing 
to  you,”  he  said  impulsively,  “because  I seem  fated  to 
bring  misfortune  on  every  woman  who  cares  for  me ! The 
two  who  loved  and  trusted  me  found  only  misery  in  that 
love — to  both  it  brought  despair,  and  to  one,  at  least, 
death  I” 

He  spoke  bitterly,  with  his  head  bowed,  and  his  forehead 
hidden  in  his  hana. 

Madame  Astraea  had  sprung  up  to  a sitting  posture. 
The  shadows  of  the  twilight  were  deep  in  the  room,  so  he 
could  not  have  seen,  even  if  he  had  been  looking  at  her, 
which  he  was  not,  how  deathly  white  her  face  was. 

4 ‘ One  of  the  two  met  death,  you  say,”  she  spoke  hoarsely, 
after  a brief  silence;  “which  was  it?” 

He  answered,  with  a world'of  self -accusation,  of  self-re- 
proach, in  his  bitter  tones : 

“ This  morning  I buried  Geraldine,  the  woman  you  have 
known  as  my  wife.  The  shock  brought  on  by  the  knowl- 
edge that  she  was  not  legally  my  wife,  killed  her.  It  took 
her  life  like  a sword-thrust  through  her  heart,  and  I feel, 
God  help  me,  that  I was  her  murderer!  Yet  when  I mar^ 
ried  her,  I meant  her  no  harm,  poor  girl,  and  I was  honest 
in  what  I did.  I knew  that  she  loved  me,  and  I thought  I 
would  marry  her;  I thought  I was  free  to  do  it.  God 
knows,  I could  never  have  done  her  the  terrible  wrong 
she  thought  I did.  If  I had  dreamed  there  had  been  any 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


121 


mistake  about  Daisy’s  death,  I would  have  allowed  myself 
to  have  been  burned  at  a stake  before  I would  have  brought 
shame  on  her,  and  crime  on  myself,  by  marrying  her.” 

He  was  speaking  in  a rambling,  incoherent  way,  and  he 
did  not  seem  to  be  addressing  his  remarks  to  Madame  As- 
trsea.  He  appeared  to  have  forgotten  her  presence,  and 
the  wildness  of  his  words  and  manner  led  her  to  believe 
that  his  reason  was  wandering. 

With  wide  eyes  and  parted  lips  she  stared  at  his  bowed 
face  in  the  deepening  gloom,  with  a chaos  of  ideas  in  her 
mind. 

Impulsively,  she  reached  out  her  hand  and  placed  it 
heavily  on  Ins  shoulder. 

“What  do  you  mean  about  Daisy’s  being  dead  ?”  she 
asked  quiveringly.  “If  you  are  in  your  right  mind,  tell 
me  what  you  meant  by  saying  that  you  thought  you  were 
free  to  marry  Geraldine  Fitzgerald,  when  you  certainly 
knew  that  you  had  already  a living  wife.” 

Her  vehement  words  brought  him  to  himself,  as  it  were ; 
her  knowledge  of  his  affairs  surprised  him. 

What  did  she  know  about  his  former  marriage? 

He  did  not  give  utterance  to  these  thoughts.  She  might 
explain  or  not,  as  she  felt  inclined.  As  for  him  he  would 
deal  candidly  and  openly  with  her.  He  was  resolved  that 
it  should  be  the  last  interview  they  would  ever  hold  on 
earth. 

Neither  Maggie,  nor  her  mother,  nor  Dan  came  into  the 
room  to  bring  a light.  Only  the  radiance  of  the  rising 
moon  stole  in  to  them  through  the  open  window,  and  it  cast 
a ^ale  glow  on  the  disturbed  face  of  Clifford  Bancroft  as  he 

4 4 1 have  been  twice  married.  It  was  your  likeness  to 
my  first  wife  which  attracted  me  toward  you  in  the  begin- 
ning, I think.  But  I was  a moth  that  approached  too  near 
a dangerous  flame  when  I hovered  near  you.  You  know 
how  it  ended.  I fell  madly  in  love  with  you — wickedly  in 
love  with  you ; I being  bound  by  every  tie  of  honor  to 
Geraldine.” 

“I  deny  it!”  Madame  Astrsea  exclaimed,  starting  to  her 
feet  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment,  and  quivering  from 
head  to  foot.  44  You  were  bound  by  every  tie  of  honor  to 
Daisy  Darrell !” 

He  reached  up  and  caught  her  arm.  44  Sit  down,”  he 
commanded,  4 4 and  let  me  tell  you  of  Daisy  Darrell.  I 
don’t  know  how  much  you  may  know  about  her,  for  I did 
not  dream  that  you  had  ever  heard  the  mention  of  her 
name  even. 

4 4 When  I first  saw  her,  I was  in  love  with  her  cousin, 
Geraldine  Fitzgerald,  or  fancied  that  I was,  for  I know 


m 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


now  that  I never  really  loved  but  one  woman  on  earth— 
and  she  was  neither  Geraldine  Fitzgerald,  nor  Daisy  Dar- 
rell— although  at  different  times  I fancied  myself  madly 
in  love  with  each. 

“I  was  young  and  impulsive,  and  while  the  spell  of 
Daisy  Darrell’s  power  was  over  me,  I persuadtd  her  into 
a secret  marriage  with  me,  and  then,  coward  that  I was, 
I was  afraid  to  present  her  to  my  family  as  my  wife,  sim- 
ply because  her  ways  were  uncultured,  So,  weak  fool 
that  I was,  I kept  the  marriage  a profound  secret,  and  all 
the  time  I was  engaged  to  Geraldine  Fitzgerald,  and  al- 
though I did  not  love  her — not  half  as  well  as  I did  Daisy, 
I,  like  the  coward  that  I was,  postponed  breaking  the  en- 
gagement with  her  from  day  to  day  until,  I suppose,  some 
hint  of  the  state  of  affairs  reached  the  ears  or  Daisy,  and 
in  the  disgust  and  hatred  of  me  it  inspired,  she  ran  away 
from  me.  I was  shocked  and  grieved  when  I found  her 
gone,  and  I sought  earnestly  for  her,  and  if  I had  found 
her,  I intended  by  my  devotion  to  make  amends  for  my 
former  neglect,  I intended  to  proclaim  her  to  the  world 
as  my  wife. 

“I  thought  I had  found  her  at  last — found  her  dead  in 
the  Morgue,  where  her  drowned  body  had  been  taken 
from  the  river.  The  features  of  the  dead  woman  were 
swollen  beyond  recognition,  but  she  was  wrapped  in 
Daisy’s  shawl,  in  one  corner  of  which  was  her  name, which 
I haa  seen  my  wife  embroider  with  her  own  little  hands. 

“ I asked  no  further  proof.  I buried  her  as  my  wife, 
and  then,  as  Geraldine  loved  me  so,  and  I could  not  call 
Daisy  back  to  life,  as  I would  gladly,  oh,  how  gladly ! have 
done,  I married  Geraldine.” 

The  moonlight  streaming  clear  and  bright  into  his  face 
showed  the  troubled  look  that  was  in  it,  and  Madame 
Astrsea  turned  her  head  and  looked  away  through  the 
window  on  the  silvery  night. 

“I  found  out,”  he  went  on,  wearily,  “ from  a letter 
Daisy  had  written  to  the  clergyman  who  married  us,  that 
a terrible  mistake  had  been  made  in  the  identity  of  the 
drowned  woman ; that  Daisy  was  alive  at  the  time  of  my 
marriage  with  Geraldine. 

i 4 That  letter  fell  accidently  into  Geraldine’s  hands, 
and— she  had  heart  trouble — the  shock  killed  her,  poor 
woman  I” 

A break  came  into  his  voice,  and  he  arose. 

u It  is  the  last  time  we  shall  ever  meet,”  he  said,  extend- 
ing both  his  hands  to  her,  and  speaking  very  huskily.  “ It 
is  best  that  it  should  be  so — it  is  best  for  my  sake,  and  for 
Daisy’s,  that  our  parting  should  be  final.  I am  going  to 
search  for  her,  far  and  wide,  and  if  she  is  living,  I will  de' 


DAISY  DARRELL. 


198 


vote  my  life  to  her,  and  will  try  to  love  her,  if  she  will  for- 
give me  the  sorrow  I have  brought  on  her  in  the  past. 
Good-bye.” 

That  last  word  died  in  a gurgle  in  his  throat. 

“No,  no— not  good-bye !”  Madame  Astrsea  exclaimed,  im- 
pulsively throwing  her  arms  around  his  neck.  “Oh, 
Clifford,  don’t  you  know  me?  Don’t  you  know  your  wild, 
silly  little  wife — Daisy?  I have  been  more  wicked  than 
you  were,  Clifford.  You  were  deceived  when  you  married 
Geraldine,  and  it  was  no  sin — but  I sinned  when  I allowed 
you  to  go  on  in  the  error — I should  have  undeceived  you, 
instead  of  using  the  wealth  that  came  unexpectedly  to  me, 
to  wreak  vengeance  on  you.  I tried  to  win  your  love— but 
not  from  a good  motive — it  was  that  I might  wring  your 
heart  with  the  scorn  I meant  to  have  given  you.  But 
I loved  you  all  the  time.  Clifford,  and  if  you  will  forgive 
and  take  me  back  to  your  heart,  I will  continue  trying  to 
make  you  love  me  l” 

When  Heaven  opens  for  Clifford  Bancroft  he  will  scarcely 
be  happier  than  he  was  at  that  moment  when  he  realized 
that  the  woman  he  loved  with  all  his  soul  was  his  own 
wedded  wife— Daisy  Darrell ! 

Clifford  Bancroft  went  to  Europe,  and  so  did  Madame 
Astrsea,  but  “the  world,”  or  so  much  of  it  as  composed 
their  circle  of  associates,  never  knew  that  they  went  to- 
gether, When  they  returned  in  the  course  of  the  year  as 
man  and  wife,  it  was  asserted  that  they  had  been  married 
at  the  home  of  one  of  the  bride’s  English  uncles,  and  no 
one  questioned  the  truth  of  the  statement. 

That  same  year  New  York  congratulated  itself  on  the 
loss  of  a nuisance.  Dan  Devenant’s  dance  house  was 
closed,  and  Dan  ioined  the  church,  and,  wonderful  to  re- 
late, married  Bridget  Conner,  and  retired  to  the  country 
and  devoted  himself  to  domestic  and  agricultural  pursuits. 

His  home  was  a beautiful  cottage  situated  in  a broad 
sweep  of  fertile  ground,  where  he  resided  with  his  mother 
and  wife,  and  at  Silver  View,  the  adjoining  piantation,  John 
Goldman  lived  with  his  mother,  and  his  wife,  who  had 
been  Maggie  Woodruff. 

These  estates  were  the  absolute  property  of  Dan  Deve- 
nant  and  John  Goldman,  and  were  the  gift  of  Mrs.  Clifford 
Bancroft,  whom  they  had  known  only  as  Madame  Astreea, 

But  in  each  deed  occurred  this  sentence: 

“ For  kindness  done  to  Daisy  Darrell.” 


[the  end.] 


. 


\^>  \ 


